


No Capes!

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Everything Is Better With Dragons, F/M, Foof, Gratuitous Cheekbones, Humour, John Watson is a Saint, John Watson: Relationship Counsellor, Romance, Several Superheroes' Dignities Were Injured In The Making of This Fic, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Needs A Hug, To The Mycroft Cave!, Warning: Mary Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is back in London after a brief sojourn in New York. </p><p>But she has brought with her a "new friend."  A skinny, overbearing, overweening "new friend," whom Sherlock likes not at all. </p><p>But what if Sherlock- or Molly, for that matter- has met their match? What if Loki won't leave? John is amused, Sherlock is horrified, and Mary knows she could probably sell tickets... So ding, ding! Let the Great British Ponce-Off commence!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anglo-Asgard Relations

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Spoilers for all of season 3, and set after  _His Last Vow._ Truth be told, I'm not even sure how this happened: This is pure, undiluted cross-over fluff.  _Unrepentant_ , pure, undiluted cross-over fluff. I would apologise to all the characters whose dignities I'm about to decimate, but what would be the point? So sit back and enjoy. And thanks to Katya Jade for her beta.

* * *

_~ Anglo-Asgard Relations ~_

* * *

 

When thinking back on how this all started, Sherlock decides that he blames Mary.

Not that he doesn't think any of the other Avengers (and isn't  _that_ an abysmally stupid name for a group?) didn't play their part in what the British tabloids are now terming Lokigate, but the bulk of the blame can be laid at Mrs. Watson's door.

After all, she's the one who suggests Molly leaves the country until they apprehend Moriarty, and she's the one who calls on her old friend Natasha Romanova in order to make that happen.

She's the one who arranges the internship for Molly in Stark Industries, reasoning that if Hooper can keep her temper around Sherlock Holmes then she'll probably be able to keep her temper around Tony Stark. And Bruce Banner. And, well, the Hulk.

( _Sherlock's not exactly thrilled by what that says about him.)_

Mary is also the person who recommends Molly changes her appearance and style as much as possible when she's abroad, the better to conceal her identity should anyone become suspicious. She's the person who brings her shopping and teaches her some self-defence, and brings in a, frankly, ridiculously short, hirsute man named Logan (with whom every woman in the flat inexplicably flirts) to go through her personal safety in the wake of Moriarty's Return.

And perhaps, most damningly, Mary is also the person who suggests that when Molly eventually comes back from New York she brings her new charge with her. The one she's been watching over while she was in New York. The one who wants to reconnect with his brother in London. The one with the high security clearance that Mycroft doesn't want to talk about. The one currently bloody… canoodling with Sherlock Holmes' pathologist in the middle of the St. Bart's canteen-  _Disgusting,_ Sherlock thinks,  _just completely unnecessary-_

And it is for this reason that Sherlock has decided that a) all of Mary's future interactions with Molly should be monitored heavily, and possibly curtailed, and b) that Molly's charge, Serrure, is the most obnoxious, preening, overweening, overbearing arsehole in the history of western civilisation, and that he absolutely, positively should not have his hands anywhere near sweet, innocent, possibly alcoholically-inclined Molly Hooper.

 _She is_ _**Sherlock's** _ _pathologist. This Serrure fellow can keep his filthy mitts off her._

Even if his attentions don't seem the least unwanted, and Molly, in fact, seems perfectly happy in his company, Serrure is clearly still a twat.

"Take it easy, mate," he hears John's voice chime from across the table at him, his amusement clear even though he's trying to hide it. He is poking his bacon and eggs gingerly, having insisted on their both going to the canteen to get some food. "She's only having her breakfast with the bloke, stop staring daggers at him."

"I am not staring daggers at anyone," Sherlock snaps. Looking over the table at John. Staring daggers.

Even he must admit his reaction is less than helpful.

Watson's grin widens- it looks irritatingly like Mary's now- and he crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair. "Fine," he says. "Then go over there. Say hello. Welcome Molly's new prospect to St. Bart's. You made that effort with Tom, didn't you? So try again."

And calmly, maddeningly, he pops a forkful of scrambled egg in his mouth. Waggles his eyebrows. It is astonishingly childish.

It takes Sherlock a moment to recall both the significance of the name and to realise that his glare will not stop John teasing him, so he shoots his friend an imperious look, stands and makes his way over the canteen to Molly's table. The trainee doctors scatter away from him like pigeons, a couple abandoning their meals in the process, but it doesn't bring the satisfyingly warm glow it usually does. Without waiting for an introduction he seats himself beside Molly on the table bench and crosses his arms. Shoots Serrure his best glare. He can feel her thigh pressing against his as she murmurs her hello and he's not entirely sure why but it feels a little bit… Not Very Horrible.

Goodness, he hopes she doesn't realise that.

Goodness, he hopes  _John_  doesn't realise that.

He really wishes John would do him the courtesy of masking his guffaws at a time like this but Watson's looking at him, devilment in his eyes and laughing with nary a thought for his friend's tender feelings. The git.

"So this is the clever detective in the funny hat," Serrure drawls in a sharp, cut-glass accent every bit as upper-crust as Sherlock's own. Holmes stiffens. "Molly's been talking about you- Don't worry, she did you justice."

And he leans back nonchalantly, his green eyes raking over Sherlock's impeccable suit before he shoots a cheeky wink at Molly. His look is evaluating, mocking; Serrure too is wearing a suit, his heavier, more expensive and charcoal grey. A dark green tie and matching, dark emerald cufflinks are set against a snowy white shirt, his collar-length black hair sleek and combed. It's effortlessly elegant in the way Sherlock always likes to think he is, but for the first time in a very long time the detective feels a smidge of… discomfort. He refuses to characterise the sensation as jealousy.

 _His suit is just as nice as Serrure's_ , he assures himself.

And anyway, it takes more than a spot of bespoke tailoring to turn Molly Hooper's head.

_Apparently you need to be a higher-functioning sociopath too._

Which for all he knows, Serrure is. He can't help but notice the way her eyes sweep over the other man when she thinks he's not looking, her pupils dilating, her mouth opening unconsciously as her tongue pokes out to lick her lips, and it occurs to Sherlock that it may not be the notion of Serrure  _in_ the suit, so much as the notion of him  _out_  of it, that's engaging her interest. Which is not something he's ever really thought when she looks at him. He's not entirely sure how he feels about that- No, he's entirely sure how he feels: dismayed- but he's not about to say that out loud. Instead he casts around for something to speak of that won't result in him sounding like an idiot or thumping Serrure for his epic engittedness-

"You look well, Molly," is what he settles for, mainly because it's true. She does.

She beams at him and Sherlock has the satisfaction of seeing Serrure stiffen. "I feel well," she says. "Pepper and Darcy took me down to Malibu for a few days before I came back; I'd forgotten how much I like the sunshine." She hums happily, forks some bacon and eggs into her mouth with a grin. "It's so beautiful there, Sherlock- Not like dreary old London-"

"You're right," Serrure says, shooting another antagonistic, imperious look at Sherlock. His eyes are mischievous. "London is just so dull and slow- I'm not sure how you could bear to come back to it, my dear."

Molly blinks at him. "It's my home, Lo-" She clears her throat self-consciously. "It's my home, I'd never abandon it," she says. "Going away is nice, but having someone- ahem, somewhere to come home to is nicer. Don't you think, Sherlock?"

"Yes," Serrure echoes mockingly, "Don't you think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock fights to urge to grit his teeth. He will not lower himself to this level of childish one-upmanship unless it involves his brother. "I think that Molly will always have a home in London, no matter what flight of fancy destination she decides to fritter away her time on," he says quietly.

And he shoots Molly his best grin, the one that got him a human head out of St. Bart's morgue.

Molly grins back at him and he has to rein in the desire to stick his tongue out at Serrure.

But his sense of triumph is premature. "Ah yes," the other man says, "London can be the reliable husband, and her wider destinations can be the exciting new man. I think I could get behind that notion." He reaches across and brushes a kiss over Molly's knuckles and Ms. Hooper actually bloody giggles.  _Giggles._ Serrure grins at Molly, the force is it nearly blinding the entire room.  _Seriously, Sherlock's astonished those teeth don't carry a public health warning._ And with that he leans down and whispers something, presumably, flirtatious, in her ear- Sherlock can't make it out because, irritatingly, he's positioned himself precisely so as to avoid lip-reading- and then Serrure is gone. He makes his way to the hooks along the door and puts on a long, flowing wool coat, turning the collar up against the cold-

"Dammit," Sherlock says, and Molly blinks at him.

"Something the matter?" she asks.

Sherlock looks at her, mumbles something about having left an experiment going in Baker Street and having to head back there right away- "John should join me," he mutters, "welcome back, and all that…"

He doesn't answer when John asks how the meeting with Serrure went. Nor does he comment on John's, "I think you scored, mate,"- because he's too bloody busy reflecting that his friend was right.

Because turning your coat-collar up around your cheekbones does indeed make you look like a ponce. And unfortunately for him, he's no longer the only ponce in town.

 _Bugger,_ Sherlock thinks as he and John stalk out of St. Bart's.  _Bugger, bugger, bugger._

"Oh yes," John chortles. "You definitely scored, mate."

Sherlock reminds himself that even without Mary's cooperation, he can still murder John quite handily, but the thought brings no comfort at all.

_Drat._

* * *

_So, what do you think? Would you like to read more? Let me know, he he he. And hobbits away, hey!_


	2. I Didn't Hand You The Watermelon, Sherlock

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.  Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Octarine Sparks, Calicar, strangedazey, anasaziana, redmargay, Krekta, TheIcemanandTheVirgin, tiredofthingsthatbreak, ivegoneouthewindow, londonmarie, Mina and PinkGlitterMasturbation. Thanks also go to everyone who left kudos. And now, let's get on with the Holmes-related torture…

* * *

 ~  _I Didn_   _'_   _t Hand You The Watermelon, Sherlock, (And I Didn'_   _t Make You Carry It Either) ~_  


* * *

He's impossible for the rest of the day, and John knows why.

It's because of little Molly Hooper and her big brown eyes and her big, tall,  _handsome_  new gentleman caller who- from what little John has seen- could give even the great Sherlock a run for his money in the Posh Ponce With Cheek-Bones department.

 _And that_ _'_ _s saying something_.

John snickers, watching his best friend pout and fiddle with his mobile phone, barking out orders to their cabby as they make their way back to Baker Street. He sounds so miffed he should have Klingon subtitles, and judging by the long-suffering look he shoots him, the cabbie agrees with that assessment. It's actually quite funny; Sherlock spent all those years hating the fact that Molly clearly fancied him, and now she might not anymore, he's wandering around with a face on him like a smacked arse.

 _The wonders of the human heart are many_ , John reflects dryly.

 _And the wonders of Sherlock Holmes_ _'_ _ego are many too_.

Not that John thinks this is just about ego though, not really. If he did, he'd just find himself a nice, comfy spot to watch from- any pissing contest involving Sherlock Holmes is entertaining- but he wouldn't be showing the situation the sort of attention he's giving it.  _Sherlock would just need to be left pouting in a corner until his snit had run its course_. This is different though, he and Mary are agreed upon that. One of the reasons Mary suggested sending Molly away was to give Sherlock some time to reflect upon her absence: It had been no surprise to either John or his wife that Sherlock was a bit of a git about her broken engagement. The drugs had had a lot to do with it, John knows, but Sherlock's own less-than-stellar ability to handle his emotions was clearly the real culprit-

So they'd sent her away, let him get a taste of what life was like without her.

And lo and behold, when she had been gone during the Moriarty Hoax, Sherlock had clearly… fretted over her absence.

He'd never mentioned it but the detective had kept a ridiculously close eye on New York, even going to far as to hack into Mycroft's system to spy on Stark Tower. He'd jealously scanned any public interactions Molly had with the Avengers, particularly Tony Stark (given his, "egregious reputation with the more trusting members of the fairer sex, of which Molly is definitely one, John,") and Steve Rogers ("Given the fact that he's clearly an overly armed Ken doll which a miniscule notion of anything beyond the size of his biceps, Mary.") Molly hadn't come to see him in the hospital (that he knew of) and he hadn't had a chance to explain the situation with Janine to her, which even Sherlock had accepted was a Bit Not Good. In essence they had parted on bad terms, and the notion that anything would happen to her before they made up had seemed to be gnawing on what little Sherlock had that passed for a conscience. So he'd kept a close eye on her and things had gone from there.

It had been… Well, "heart-warming," is the word John wants to use.

Apparently Mary thought the more appropriate phrase was, "absolutely bloody hilarious."

He might not be admitting it right now, but John sort of agrees with her.

 _It's the ability to weather these little differences that makes them a strong couple_ , Watson knows.

The cab reaches Baker Street then and Sherlock hops out, all but throwing money at the cabby before storming inside. John grins, imagining the scene he's going to endure when he follows him: Now he has a home to go to-alone- he can afford to laugh at his best friend's huffs. He follows Holmes into the flat, opens the door to hear the hiss of a violin being tortured. There's another squawk of noise before Sherlock settles into playing an actual melody: For a moment John assumes it will be Beethoven- when Sherlock's in a mood, it's  _always_ Beethoven- but he belatedly realises his friend is playing Led Zeppelin's  _Kashmir_ as loudly and as aggressively as he can, kicking anything even remotely within reach in order to punctuate the song's hammering, percussive beat.

 _It's a good job,_ John reflects,  _that they don't own a cat._

The Union Jack cushion John bought when he first moved in has already received a bollocking, as has the living room rug, and several bits of china look to be on decidedly dodgy ground with their owner. Watson doesn't want to find out what Sherlock will decide total next, so- seventies heavy rock classics in the hands of a genius not being something which bodes well- he takes off his coat and sets it down. Makes a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock. Waits for Sherlock to get through the song once- since he'll just whine and pout if he doesn't- before calmly walking over, kicking his friend lightly in the shin and, when he's distracted, taking the violin off him. Sherlock opens his mouth to object but John quickly stuffs a biscuit in his mouth with his free hand, stalling the argument, before placing the violin out of Sherlock's reach on the table behind him and handing Holmes a cup of tea instead. He smiles that smile which always works, the one which reminds his best friend that he could absolutely shoot Sherlock if he has to and that most of their friends would back him one hundred percent-

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Sherlock elects to sit down.

Again, Sherlock opens his mouth to object (through a mouthful of chocolate chips and crumbs, no less), again John silences him with a look. They've been through this enough times to know the procedure: John will say his piece, Sherlock will mock it and start playing again. After an hour of this Mrs. Hudson will go visit her "friend," Mr. Gupta up the road to get some peace and quiet. In about 24 hours Sherlock will realise that John was right and follow his advice, though he will never admit this and John will, once again, have helped his friend engage with his fellow humans in the same way a kindly kindergarten teacher helps a particularly slow child trust crayons enough to draw with them instead of eating them with his packed lunch. Apparently Sherlock has some idea that's what's coming up because crosses his arms in an alarmingly adversarial manner, glowering at John as if to say,  _Well, what next?_

John sits down, takes a sip of his tea. Looks at his friend over the rim of it.

"So," he says. "You. Molly Hooper. That ponce in the canteen this morning. It's making you feel all tingly in your man-parts, is it?" He takes another sip of tea. Raises his pinkie finger with exaggerated elegance. "Let's explore that."

Sherlock blinks at hearing his feelings characterised thus, having clearly expected one of their delicate, thoughtful little man-to-man talks, but there's no way John's tiptoeing his way through this.

He leaves Sherlock to reflect on why he might be bothered that Molly has a new boyfriend and his grandchildren will be in college before Holmes figures out what his problem is.

"She- I-" Sherlock clears his throat, gives his head a little shake as if to clear it.

"I never said I had a problem with her new… companion," he says stiffly.

 _Interesting,_ John thinks,  _that he said "companion," and not "prospect," or, "interest," or- heaven forbid- "boyfriend." Very interesting indeed._

"And yet," John rejoins cheerfully, "the last time I saw you look at someone like you looked at him, we were inside a swimming pool and I had a bomb strapped to my chest. Explain please."

Sherlock scoffs. "I did  _not_  give him the full Moriarty," he says.

John can't help his grin. "No, you gave him the full Holmes. Glaring, condescending, all you needed was the funny hat. And then, when you saw him do that trick of yours with your coat-collar, you all but threw your toys out of the pram. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

Sherlock sputters, more annoyed this time, and makes to take the violin up again. John bats his hand easily out of the way, pushes another biscuit into it instead; The pout Sherlock shoots him this time could peel paint off the walls but John's not buying it.

_Sherlock's like a puppy: He has to learn what he can and can't chew on. It's a life-skill. So-_

"Again," John says, "you. Molly Hooper. Her new prospect. What's going on there?" John smiles beatifically. "And don't give me that wank about it being nothing. You can tell me, or you can have this conversation with Mary and Mrs. Hudson and your mother. Your choice, mate." Sherlock visibly blanches at those options: Clearly he feels threatening to bring his mother into this was a low blow, but he'll thank John when Molly shows him what his man-parts are actually for. So John lets his smile widen- "That's what I thought," he says, "so spill already-"

Holmes heaves a martyred sigh.

In the dictionary under "sulkiness," there's a picture of his current pout.

"Fine," he snaps. "If you insist on having such a frankly ridiculous conversation then lets get on with it." He glowers at John. "As you mentioned, my man-parts are tingling and there might be danger about." John snorts at the jibe-  _he's tempted to ask whether Sherlock's man-parts have always been so instrumental in deducing possible jeopardy-_  and Holmes shoots him the ghost of a grin, some of the stress leaving him. He looks slightly forlorn without it.

He rakes a hand through that curly mop of hair, sighing as he does so, and for the first time it occurs to John that he's genuinely worried. That this might be more than a pissing contest for him.

"I don't think that that fellow Serrure is good for Molly, alright?" Sherlock says eventually. "I mean, yes, physically he's her type but there's just something about the git that makes me… uncomfortable. And before you ask, yes, I've looked, I've tried to deduce him, but I can't find anything worrisome- yet."

He puffs out a frustrated breath.

"Which doesn't mean that there's nothing there. Not that- I mean, yes, physically we're quite alike and yes, Serrure might possibly, potentially, have as much panache when it comes to dressing as myself, and a similarly elegant take on modern London style-" John fights the urge to roll his eyes- "but he's- That's- I mean, that's not enough to make you good enough for  _Molly._ Cheek-bones, some experience as a clothes horse and a public-school accent are not nearly enough to make him suitable for m- that is to say, our dear Ms. Hooper."

He clears his throat. "She deserves a great deal better, clearly."

And amazingly, two slight red spots appear on Sherlock's cheeks.

He shoots John a glare which dares him to mention them.

John really would like to take out his phone and take a photo of this moment, but he suspects now is neither the time nor the place- Though God he wishes he didn't know that.

_He'll have to satisfy himself with relating this story to Mary when he comes home tonight._

John takes a deep breath. "So basically, you don't think he's good enough for her, and something about him makes you think he might not be… ok as a boyfriend?" he says. "Reliable, maybe? Someone you want to encourage in Molly's life?"

Sherlock nods vigorously. "Exactly!" he says. "I mean, when she's chasing after me, she's clearly out of danger. You leave her alone though, and either she takes up with someone who's completely wrong for her- What on earth was that thing with that "Tom," bloke about anyway?- Or else she goes for  _evil_ higher functioning sociopaths, which is clearly not the sort of behaviour we should be condoning. Or encouraging."

John has to swallow a grin. "So if she's going for higher functioning sociopaths, then she should go for nice ones?" he asks innocently.

"Exactly!" Sherlock nods. He looks relieved that John understands him.

"Nice higher functioning sociopaths?" John ventures. "Like, for example, you?"

"Precisely!" Sherlock nods again. He's bouncing about in his seat now, apparently unaware of what he's just admitted.

 _Smartest man in the room, my arse_ , John thinks.

Watson's grinning though. "So basically, instead of running after this Serrure bloke, you think she should be running after you," he says. "Does that about cover it, mate?"

Sherlock nods excitedly. "Exactly. I mean, why does she want to chase after anyone else when she has me?"

John shakes his head.  _This cannot be this easy_. "But Sherlock," he points out, "she  _doesn't_ have you. You and she aren't going out. Before she went off to New York you didn't even talk to her about that thing with Janine..."

He leans in, tries to make his friend see.

The fate of Sherlock's man-parts may be in the balance here.

"And besides, Molly Hooper wants a  _boyfriend_ Sherlock," he tells him. "She wants someone to care about, someone to spend time with. Someone who will at least do naughty, naked, sweaty things with her to the joy and delight of all. And if you're not the higher-functioning sociopath applying for that job, then she's going to find another one who's interested-"

Sherlock crosses his arms. The toys-out-of-the-pram look is back.

"Well, that's not good enough," he announces haughtily. "And we shall just have to do something about it-"

 _Yes we shall,_ a voice which seems to come out of nowhere announces.  _Why on Earth do you cretinous little mortals think I'm here?_

It sounds… It sounds suspiciously like that Serrure bloke, but John knows that's impossible.

And then Serrure simply appears- that's right, simply _materialises-_ inside 221B and John's notion of impossible, whatever it is, goes right out the window. 


	3. Owls On Backing Vocals

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to chironsgirl, Cumberburch, Len, miabicicletta, Dp, Cordelia, the_inked_quill, Adi_Mou and strangedazey. Enjoy!

* * *

_~ Owls On Backing Vocals ~_

* * *

 

For a moment Sherlock simply stares.

 _He can_ _'_ _t- He didn_ _'_ _t- This isn_ _'_ _t_ _ **possible**_ , he thinks.  _There is no way for someone to simply_ _ **appear**_ _in a room-_ And yet-

"Before you ask," John chimes beside him, "I can see him too, Sherlock, so either he's really here or we're having matching hallucinations, which isn't exactly comforting-"

Sherlock looks at his friend like he's insane. "Do you think anything about us having matching hallucinations is going to be comforting, John?"

John crosses his arms over his chest and glowers. "You know, you really should learn to take an attempt to comfort you in the spirit in which it was intended-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward. "Say something even vaguely comforting and I'll give it a try."

"Show even the slightest hint of gratitude," John snaps back, "and I will do-"

"Oh for pity's sake," Serrure snaps. He strides over to both men and without ceremony taps both of them on the back of the head with his cane before darting back the way he came, grinning insolently.

"There, that should lay any questions about my corporeality to rest, shouldn't it?" he says smugly. "Either that, or you both independently came up with my doing that. And you both imagined what it would feel like for my staff to make contact with your skull at the same time. Which would be so unlikely as to strain even your meagre powers of credulity-"

And he bounces on his heels at these words, grinning smugly.

Sherlock is, irritatingly, reminded of himself as a very small child.

_This is not, needless to say, exactly enhancing of his Great Detective Zen-_

A very, very long beat of silence presses out, wherein everyone present stares at everyone else and hazards a guess over whose penis is probably bigger.

 _It goes without saying, of course, that anyone who isn't John Watson vastly over-estimates matters_.

It's Serrure who breaks it, heaving the sort of martyred sigh Sherlock last heard employed onstage by a particularly miscast Hal when he had to send Falstaff away. "Fine, let's get the preliminaries out of the way," the newcomer announces. "Yes, I'm here. Yes, I'm a great deal more handsome and clever than either of you, which is why Molly likes me better. And yes, I can just appear places when I want to: It is, to quote your great Bard Master Mercury, "A kind of magic.""

The grin gets wider. More mocking.

Sherlock swears he can feel his blood-pressure rise.

"So you want me to believe," Holmes snaps, (because he's not touching that statement about Molly with a ten foot barge-pole) "that  _you-_ a man who apparently thinks a gelled-up mullet is the height of sartorial splendour- are capable of performing acts of sorcery? That you are capable of breaking the laws of physics?"

Serrure looks at Sherlock the way a particularly pretty girl looks at a particularly nerdy boy who has just asked her out for coffee.

 _It's not a look he's used to being on the receiving end of, and he suspects he will like the statement which follows it not at all_.

"First of all, dear," Serrure drawls, "not all of us can carry off the eighties perm look quite so well as you, and so have to make alternative arrangements: Being burdened with awesomeness, as my Molly says, carries a heavy price."

Sherlock opens his mouth to start snapping in outrage- about the perm allegation or the mention of Molly being Serrure's, he's not sure- but Serrure glides on past him with nary a pause.

"Secondly, when it comes to me, my dear Mr. Holmes, the laws of physics aren't so much regulations as they are…guidelines." He grins winningly and winks at John; Sherlock sees John have to physically reminds himself not to grin back (the power of those teeth truly is awesome) and this does nothing for his sense of Zen either. "After all," Serrure is saying, "I'm practically perfect in every other way: Why should mere regulations, mere habits of matter and thought, decide what I can and can't do?"

"Em, because they're the laws of physics?" John says. "Everyone else has to abide by them, whether they want to or not."

Serrure shoots John the sort of flirtatious look Sherlock has seen Mary punch girls over. "I don't  _do_ rules," Serrure announces. "That's what my dreary older brother is for. I'm far more fun than that…"

And again he winks, causing the most unpleasant thrill of jealousy to thread through Sherlock: First he's snogging Molly, now he's putting the moves on John? Not of course that Sherlock and John's relationship is anything like his relationship with Ms. Hooper, but _come on. John liked_ _ **him**_ _first._ Something which makes no difference, because John's grinning at him the way a puppy grins at the chance to lick its own arse.

 _Traitor,_ Holmes thinks.  _Bloody hypocritical traitor._ But it gets worse, because-

"Now," Serrure announces, apparently unaware that he's prompting a minor meltdown in Sherlock, "Where is my tea?"

"Tea?" Sherlock barks. This git has got to be joking. "You expect to be given tea?"

"Yes," Serrure says, blinking. "I expect to be given tea. With honey and lemon, if you don't mind: Milk and sugar are just so gauche."

At Sherlock's rapidly darkening countenance he gives the tiniest, most elegant, most innocent little shrug. "Have I made a faux pas? I was told that it was customary in this realm to always offer a guest a hot beverage: my Molly says that I should stay away from coffee because it encourages my more homicidal tendencies, and I believe my little carrion flower is correct-"

"Carrion flower?" Sherlock manages to wheeze out. " _Carrion flower?"_

"Yes. Carrion flower." Serrure takes a bracing breath, shoots another fond look at John. "She really is the most thoughtful little creature, you have to admit. And pretty. So pretty too." His gaze flits back to Sherlock and there's mischief in its depths. "So fetch me my tea, there's a good man, Sherlock- I assume even a hovel as unhygienic and slatternly as this one has some of the stuff- and we can discuss why I'm here-"

"Why you're here? I'll tell you why you're bloody here," Sherlock announces. "You're here because you want to make some sort of asinine claim on Molly, and I'm telling you, she won't have it. And if you think she will you don't know her at all-"

But Serrure is shaking his head pityingly. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he clucks ruefully. "I fear you misapprehend my meaning: To suggest I came here to, as you say,  _lay claim to Molly,_ would suggest that I think of you as a rival. Which I don't."

He rakes a frankly unimpressed look over the detective.

Sherlock could be wrong, but he swears he hears John snicker a little bit.  _The git_.

"I mean, yes, I suppose you have a sort of naïve charm- if one likes that sort of thing- but I have no illusions," Serrure is drawling. "Nor should you." He gestures to himself. "After all, why in the Norns' names would Molly want  _you_  when she could have  _me_?"

And he leans in, those green eyes alight with mischief.

A dash of cologne rises up and it occurs to Sherlock that Serrure even  _smells_ better than him, the bastard.

"I mean, I've never told her that her mouth or her breasts are too small," Serrure is saying. "I've never made a joke about her broken engagement even though I've frightened her half to death with a drugs scare. I've never become involved in a fake engagement- on this planet, at least- which left her confused and alone and in need of someone new and charming and altogether better than you to comfort her…"

He grins and the smile is slow. Predatory.

For one split second Moriarty flashes through Sherlock's mind, though he pushes the thought quickly away.

_The guilt of knowing that what Serrure says is true is a great deal harder to shift, however._

"So all in all," Serrure announces, "I have no interest whatsoever in competing with you, little mortal, because it wouldn't be a competition of any description."

John leans in and asks the question before Sherlock can give himself an apoplectic fit. "So why are you here, then?" he asks.

Serrure grins at him in unmitigated delight. "I'm so glad you asked that," he says. He glances at Sherlock- "Still waiting on that tea, chop, chop, dear,"- and then leans in confidingly to John. "I have a family matter and I think you could help me with," he says. "I'd like to track down my brother, and Mycroft Holmes is being very uncooperative in giving me his whereabouts. Says it's a state secret or some such, which we all know is absolute and utter tosh."

At this John raises an eyebrow, leans in closer.

Apparently, Sherlock muses ruefully, he and Sorcery Ken have forgotten he's there.

Holmes trudges into the kitchen, not at all sure what to make of this eventuality but knowing he doesn't like it, and gets out the tea and biscuits he usually serves Mycroft. The ones he keeps beside the decaying buttocks flesh in the fridge, because, well, it's the sort of little thing that lightens his heart, alright?

When he comes back into the parlour one look tells him that John knows what tea and biscuits those are. He passes on the chance to partake, instead scooting over to let Sherlock perch on the arm of his chair since Serrure has deliberately, Sherlock is sure, sit in  _his_ favourite chair.

"So you're telling me you have no idea what might have happened to your brother?" John says.

"None whatsoever," Serrure answers. "It's why I came here: he and his girlfriend have all but disappeared from this realm. And Molly persuaded me that, now I've turned over my new leaf I should try and repair my relationship with him, something for which, I fear, he will need to be present." Again Serrure smiles in that nauseating fashion. "She's so kind-hearted, you know, I don't know what I'd do without her-"

 _You're going to bloody find out,_ Sherlock thinks, and then shakes himself, surprised at how much vehemence his unconscious put into that thought.

"So let me get this straight," he says, rather than muse on  _that_ little surprise. "You, Mr. Serrure, want my help. You, who apparently don't even have to follow the laws of physics, want my help to find your older brother, yes?"

Sherlock knows his smile his smug, but come on: this git had it coming.

_Even the Great Detective, however, doesn't guess what's coming next._

Because Serrure grins, rising from his chair, the carved head of his walking stick starting to glow with an ominous green and gold light. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes," he says, "I don't want you to find out  _where_  my brother is, I want you to find out  _when_  he is…"

And with that there's a flash of light and suddenly Sherlock, John and Serrure are no longer in Baker Street.

They're standing in the morgue at St. Bart's in front of Molly Hooper, who doesn't look at all surprised that three people she knows have just defied the laws of physics.

Instead she shoots Serrure a slightly cross, girl-friendesque look which makes Sherlock grind his teeth on general principles and then waves to everyone. "Well, lads," she says, "looks like you're going to find out what I did on my summer holidays-"

And that's when the large green man- the Hulk, Sherlock thinks they call him- wanders through the morgue and he realises that this is about to become a very, very, very long day indeed.

* * *

A/N Now the real fun can begin, mwah ha ha! Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading, hobbits away, hey!


	4. Taking A Hulk To The Everything

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta-read by the wonderful and delightful Katya Jade (seriously love, thanks again). Thanks for their reviews go to the_inked_quill, londonmarie, springbok7, strangedazey, Len, and tilla. This one was a bit of a bitch to write so I hope you enjoy. Hobbits away, hey!

* * *

_~ Taking A Hulk To The Everything ~_

* * *

"So," John says after a moment. "He's… big. And green. And, you know, a great, big, manly, big, green man."

He turns to Sherlock, gestures to The Hulk.

"Don't you think, mate?" he says.

Sherlock means to answer him, but for a moment he feels a little too sick- too dizzy- to do so. For a moment he can't quite believe the evidence of his own eyes, and that hasn't happened since Baskerville.

After all, he'd heard of The Hulk, even seen some of the footage from the Battle of Manhattan once he'd returned from his hiatus, but he didn't think he'd ever see the creature face to face. Didn't think he'd ever actually encounter a giant green rage monster in the basement of St. Bart's-

And then suddenly, as if to prove to him once and for all that it's real, the beast's huge, beefy fist whips by him. It's moving so fast it blurs.

The fist makes contact with perfect bloody Serrure's perfect bloody cheekbones, knocking him into the wall beside Sherlock and Watson with a painful-sounding crick which even John winces at and leaving the other man a crumpled heap of humanity in the corner of the room.

This sight does wonders for Sherlock's mood, which is something which should probably worry him.

"Hulk smash puny god," the creature grunts.

_In this moment, Sherlock decides that he rather likes The Hulk._

He glances at John whose expression tells him his grin to this effect is more than a Bit Not Good.  _Whatevs,_ Sherlock thinks. "Molly will thank me later," he mutters.

"No," John mutters back, looking rather disturbed by Sherlock's attitude. "Take it from me: She really bloody won't."

Serrure gets to his feet easily however, shaking his body out as if merely having been winded- "Missed me, darling, did you?" he asks wryly. He smiles at Molly, wandering over and kissing her lightly on the lips without a single shred of care for The Hulk's continued hostility, or indeed for Sherlock's.

Molly frowns at The Hulk- "Now," she says admonishingly, "We don't hurt allies, do we, Hulk? And Loki is an ally…"

The Hulk pouts at her words. "Puny god always good to smash," it mutters.

Molly crosses her arms, looking like nothing so much as an admonishing mother. "We have had this conversation, Hulk," she points out. "And you promised no more smashing my boyfriend."

The Hulk mutters something mutinous under his breath, clearly unhappy with Molly's position (and the fact that Serrure is grinning cheekily at him), and suddenly Sherlock is very, very worried indeed.

For though he knew Serrure must have something to do with Molly's little summer holiday, it has never occurred to him before this moment that the bloke might be something other than… human. He's not even convinced by the teleportation and his claims of magical power; Serrure strikes him as the type who'd never let the truth get in the way of a good story.  _Or explanation._

But if The Great Ponce can get up from an altercation with The Hulk looking nothing so much as  _slightly winded,_ if he is so tough or stupid or delusional as to believe winding up The Hulk is a good idea, then he is clearly a great deal different from the sort of men Molly normally chases. He is clearly a great deal different from the sort of men  _Sherlock_  normally chases. In fact, Serrure would appear to not be from around here at all, a fact supported by Molly's referring to him as an Avengers' ally…

It comes together in his head then.

Not human. Puny  _god_ , according to The Hulk, who has, if Mycroft's sources in Washington are to be believed, good reason to know. Dark-haired, silver-tongued, sociopathic tendencies of the sort to set Molly Hooper's heart aflutter. Clearly used to being in charge, and looking for a brother who's living in London now. A brother whom Mycroft's been keeping tabs on.

 _Oh,_ Sherlock thinks.  _Oh bugger._

He shoots John his most eloquent wince:  _This is more than a Bit Not Good._

Because there's only one person Serrure could be, and the only reason it had not occurred to Sherlock was because almost all footage of the Siege of Manhattan had been locked-down by the US government in the battle's aftermath. No footage of the alien hordes' leader had been publicized, since he hadn't been tried on Earth.  _And Sherlock didn't honestly think Molly Hooper's taste in men could be_ _ **that**_ _bad._  But given the evidence of the last few moments- "Loki," Sherlock says in disbelief.

John, Molly, even The Hulk stare at him.

"You're Loki of Asgard, the leader of the Chitauri invasion of Manhattan," he says. "You're- That is to say-"

"I'm a god," Serrure- ahem, Loki- drawls. He sketches an insolent bow to John and Sherlock, shoots a wink at Molly. "But then surely you guessed that already: You know I'm involved with a goddess."

Molly blushes. Sherlock, John and The Hulk all roll their eyes in complete unison and utter disgust. .

Loki grins and The Hulk makes to take another swing at him- Again, it occurs to Sherlock that he and the beast will get along famously-

"No!" Molly says, stepping in his way. "No smashing!"

Personally, Sherlock feels The Hulk has more than enough justification but he is very relieved when The Hulk stills his hand, since he is standing so near Molly.

The relief lasts until The Hulk gestures to Sherlock instead.

"Hulk smash skinny boy?" he asks. "Make Molly happy?"

Sherlock distinctly hears John snicker beside him- that would, "make John happy," apparently- and he decides he and his best friend may have to have a conversation about appropriate responses to his life being threatened later. Right now though, he'd really like to know whether Molly is going to ask her verdant new friend to clean his clocks and so he elects to await her response.

_After all, he_ _'_ _s just discovered she_ _'_ _s going out with a god: She may have become power-mad in his absence._

But she hasn't. "No, Hulk," she says, more quietly. Her eyes flicker down towards her feet, her lip bitten. Sherlock knows that pose, knows it bespeaks more emotion than she's willing to admit to and he has to fight back a smug grin. "Please…" she says, "please do not hurt the skinny boy- I mean Sherlock, his name is Sherlock-"

She looks up at the creature with those big brown eyes, apprehensive and timid as Bambi's, and forget The Hulk's,  _Sherlock_ _'_ _s_ heart just about melts.

This is unexpected, considering how black and malformed and twisted it is but  _come on_ : That look's cuter than a barrel full of kittens playing with a bunny rabbit (not that Sherlock will admit to thinking that. Ever.)

_And if Irene Adler had ever mastered that_ _expression, she_ _'_ _d be running the world by now._

Apparently the creature agrees with him, because The Hulk reaches out, touches Molly's shoulder. "Hulk not hurt skinny boy," he says with a definitive, reassuring nod. This does not, by the looks of things, please Loki. "Hulk not hurt puny god either," the creature adds, though he throws a glare at the dark-haired man which would seem to suggest that  _this_ promise is a great deal more flimsy than his first.

Loki, being Loki chortles. The Hulk glowers.

_Again it occurs to Sherlock that he and the beast might get along._

A ridiculously hopeful smile splits The Hulk's face as he looks back to Molly though. "Hulk hug Molly instead?" he asks, and the pathologist nods. Grins. She holds her arms out to him and the creature reaches down, picks Molly's whole body off the ground in a massive embrace. She gives a whoop of delighted laughter and both Sherlock and John exchange slightly worried glances: She looks tiny- fragile- in The Hulk's grip, far more delicate than she usually does in St. Bart's.

"No need to worry," Loki says, sotto voce, "The beast won't harm her. It never has in any of Project Hulk-Bait simulations-"

Sherlock turns and stares at Loki in horror. "Project Hulk-Bait?" he says. He gestures towards the creature. "There was actually a Project Hulk-Bait? And they let her in on it?"

He can't believe what he's hearing: He's the idiot who keeps endangering himself, not  _her_ **.** She's supposed to be the sane one of his friends.

_And she was supposed to be_ _**safe** _ _in the States, not traipsing around, endangering herself with The Incredible bloody Hulk._

Molly blinks at him though, as if suddenly remembering he's there. She gestures to The Hulk and he puts her down with a smile before trundling off towards the lockers in the backroom to transform, shooting Sherlock and Loki matching, terrifyingly belligerent glares as he goes.

"Yes, Sherlock," she says slowly once he's left. "I was one of the main scientists on Project Hulk Bait. And they didn't let me in on it: I'm one of the people who suggested we try cognitive behavioural therapy with Bruce when he's under." She shakes her head in disbelief. "Strangely enough, the US military had never tried the talking cure with him. Or anything, besides lobbing ineffective projectiles-"

"I'm not surprised," Sherlock snaps, something that feels unconscionably like panic unfurling within him.

She couldn't- She shouldn't- The Hulk is not safe company for someone like  _her._

At Molly's raised eyebrows he has to elaborate. "That thing in there broke Harlem," Sherlock snaps. "It tore apart several US military deployments and took a fist-sized wrecking-ball to bits of Manhattan. It's on been on and off the .U.N.'s wanted list so many times you'd think it was doing the hokey bloody kokey! And now you're cooing and cuddling with it as if it were a pet-"

Molly crosses her arms defensively. "He's not an it, Sherlock. He's a man named Bruce Banner who's big and green and angry sometimes. Just like you're skinny and pale and annoying sometimes. But he's not an it and he's not a pet-"

"-And you're not a superhero, Molly," Sherlock snaps, speaking over her.

He sees the flinch of hurt on her face at his words but he just can't seem to make himself stop, though the look on John's face probably means that he should.

"You're not even sidekick material," he tells her, "and you're certainly not the sort of person who should be playing about with the Jolly Green Rage Monster in there. You're a nice little person who works in a nice, safe place like St. Bart's and is destined for a nice, safe life. So leave that sort of nonsense to the spandex brigade, there's a good girl-"

Hooper's expression turns so explosively angry it belatedly occurs to Sherlock that he may be mishandling this.

One glance at John from the corner of his eye tells him that his supposition is correct:  _John_ _'_ _s winces can be surprisingly informative._

"First of all," she snaps out. "I'm not a "good girl," anymore, Sherlock, not yours or anybody else's-"

"I'll second that!" Serrure chortles and both she and Sherlock shoot him a look that could melt glass. It has precisely zero effect on his grin.

Sherlock hears him mutter something about "the things she can do with whipped cream and candle-wax," and he decides he doesn't really want to know what The Ponce has said.  _He doesn_ _'_ _t._ Ahem.

"Secondly," she says, " _I_  decide what I do, not you. Not anyone else. Me. So when I saw someone I thought I could help I decided to do it: I know that sort of charity is alien to you, but some of us are capable of giving a rat's arse about someone other than ourselves!"

Sherlock opens his mouth to snap back in outrage- this is entirely about him giving a rat's arse about someone besides himself, after all- but she rushes on with nary a pause.

"And thirdly," she is saying, "for future reference, I do have a superpower. A really, really, really,  _really_ rare one." She marches up to Sherlock, gets in his face. There's not the slightest trace of nervousness or hesitation about her and Sherlock finds himself swallowing at  _her_  nearness, for once.

_Really, she looks rather… fetching, when she's feeling incendiary._

"My superpower is that I can work with arseholes, day in, day out, and always see the best in them," she's muttering. "I can help them and deal with them and make sure that they have a place to hide when they really need it and never give into my more human inclinations, which are to kick them in the balls and tell them to bugger off. That's my superpower, and it's a really bloody good one to have."

She stands back, arms across her chest, and glares at Sherlock.

"So try topping it," she tells him quietly. "Because I guarantee you won't. I don't care how big your brain is."

And with that she marches herself over to Loki and wraps her arms around him, clearly upset. He hushes her, kissing her sweetly before shooting Sherlock a wickedly rakish grin over her shoulder, and it belatedly occurs to the detective that he has been played.  _Yup,_ he thinks in dismay, _played with a capital P_. Because Loki said the one thing which would set him off and make him piss off the, apparently newly feminist, Molly Hooper. And lo and behold, look who's getting an armful of Hooper right now, while Sherlock's getting an eyeful of Ponce-

 _That's right_ , Sherlock thinks.  _Loki set me up._ _ **The Bastard**_ _._

_And it's made even more galling by the fact that I didn't think of doing that first._

He glances at John and he can see that his friend guessed the git's stratagem long before he did: This too is far from the sort of thing that will enhance Sherlock's calm. The silence stretches out while Sherlock watches Loki cop a feel and coo at Molly over how much of a git he's being. He opens his mouth to point out what Loki's doing and John digs him in the ribs though. He shoots his best friend an annoyed glance but Watson gives him a single, sharp shake to the head.  _Later,_ he mouths.  _Not here._

Sherlock fancies that the last time Watson looked like that, he was carrying a tire-iron into a crack-house.

The doctor shoots Loki the sort of annoyed glance that he sometimes used to shoot Anderson and Sherlock feels the tightness in his chest loosen a little, at the thought that he still has an ally-

_And, you know, that John still likes_ _**him** _ _the best._

The silence stretches out tensely for a moment, before John elects to break it. He's staring at Loki now, and the expression is wary. Given the alien's behaviour, Sherlock suspects some infraction of the Bloke Code to have been committed, though he can't be completely certain. He may, however, experiment with feeling gleeful: He's a natural at that.

"So your brother Thor is the Thor from the Avengers," John says eventually. "Thunderbolts-of-lightning-very-very-frightening-Thor. Big, blond, permed, looks like he wandered out of the gay porn version of  _Game of Thrones_ Thor, with the armour and the designer stubble and the big hammer-" John winces. "No offence."

Apparently he'd gotten carried away. Sherlock's not surprised: He'd heard Mrs. Hudson and Mary Watson talking about "which Avenger you'd do and why," and Thor had come a very close second to someone called The Wolverine in all their discussions.

 _It was really quite excruciating to be present for,_ Sherlock reflects.  _And it seems that John has elected to hold a grudge about it._

Loki smiles gamely though. "None taken. I've seen the company he keeps: the description is entirely apt." He looks at his feet, and this time he genuinely does look chagrined. Molly strokes his arm soothingly and Sherlock has to bite back the desire to growl. "Besides," he's saying, "I have called him far worse in my time-"

John's look is wry. "Yeah, well, a lot of people have, I would imagine," he says. "Man like that probably isn't the easiest to live with-" For some reason Sherlock will not investigate, John's gaze goes to him. "But since we're here, tell us about how you found him. Then maybe we can set about finding him,  _whenever_  you believe he's been taken to-"

And John smiles his best trust-me-I'm-a-doctor grin. In this context, it's slightly terrifying.

It belatedly occurs to Sherlock that Loki has apparently made an enemy by using Molly's relationship with The Hulk against her.

 _This,_ he knows,  _is going to be rather good._

Sherlock opens his mouth to ask another question about Thor and why his brother believes him lost in both time and space. He's so distracted that for a moment he doesn't even notice the low-level boom, the wash of something, something alien pressing against him like nausea, like vertigo, like the pressure of the deep. But whether he notices it or not it lifts him, then John, then Loki, then  _Molly_  up, suspends them in space-

There's a flash and a boom and then there's nothing but darkness and Molly's voice yelling in Sherlock's ear. He reaches out and manages to grab her.

She lands in his lap with a yell and a grunt and when Sherlock opens his eyes he sees nothing but her and a darkness that is tinged with scarlet light-

And then Mycroft walks into his line of vision. "You bloody moron, Sherlock," he says. "Now stop trick-acting with your little morgue mouse and get to bloody work!"

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. Feedback is always appreciated. Hobbits away, hey!


	5. The Desolation Of Smug

_Disclaimer_ : This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the awesome Katya Jade. Thanks for their reviews go to strangedazey, ereshtisherlock, opusnone and buffchester. And now, on with the fun...

* * *

~  _The Desolation of Smug_  ~

* * *

_Oh_ , John thinks when he opens his eyes.  _Oh my giddy aunt._

_He's only gone and built himself a Mycroft Cave._

And he looks past his best friend's brother to stare at the massive, domed, vaguely Bond villainesque room in which he now finds himself. His mouth agog, wincing as he realises that he landed rather more haphazardly than he would have liked. Grinning as he realises that Serrure- eh, Loki- did likewise.

To his right there's a massive bank of what look like Cold War era computers, buzzing and flashing like something right off the bridge of The USS Enterprise. To his left Sherlock is cradling Molly in his lap, having broken her fall whenever they were-  _beamed up? Teleported?_ \- to this place. She's blushing and stammering that she doesn't need his help, but John can't help but notice that she's making no move to disentangle herself. Sherlock's cheeks are a matching shade of red and though he knows it's profoundly unwise to do so, John finds himself wanting to yell, "get in there, mate."

After all, for all his elegance and charm, Molly doesn't look at Loki the way she's looking at Sherlock right now-

And one glance at the glowering, pouting, would-be god tells Watson he's not the only person who's noticed that.

 _Not that sentiment is why they're here, apparently_. The elder Holmes rolls his eyes heavenward- "Oh for pity's sake," Mycroft's snaps impatiently, "let her bloody up Sherlock: She's spent six months training with the Avengers, I very much doubt she's so much as bruised herself-"

Molly blushes again, this time in embarrassment, and John sees Sherlock shoot Mycroft a furious look. As if to make a point, he hauls himself to his feet and holds his hand out to Molly, allowing her to do likewise. She puts her fingers in his with a small, sweet smile, their earlier disagreement apparently forgotten. Sherlock exerts a little too much pull in getting her to her feet though-  _coincidence?_  John muses,  _I think not_ \- which results in her nearly falling over again, her body smushing into his in order to stay upright. It's adolescent and it's juvenile, but it gives the detective an excuse to wrap his arm around Molly's waist, the better to steady her, even if he  _does_  nearly head-butt her accidentally in the process-

It belatedly occurs to John that his friend may not need as much help wrangling his man-parts as he had previously assumed.

 _Oh joy_ , John thinks.  _Nice to know that's how my subconscious decided to put that._

He shakes his head to himself.

_I really have been spending waaay too much time with the Mrs._

Whether that's true or not though, he supposes he should turn his attention to the person who brought them to the Mycroft Cave. Manages to get to his feet, crossing his arms and shooting Mycroft his patented, long-suffering wince.  _It's been passed around the Holmes Boys like Red Bull at a stag do for as long as he's known them_. Unfortunately, however, Mycroft would appear to be immune to its effects, shooting nothing but a cocked eyebrow back at Watson. Clearly he's decided that now he's brought them to his lair-  _And somehow, John has always suspected that he had a lair_ \- the need for embarrassment has passed. Or maybe he's just trying to brazen it out.

 _After all, a big, brassy (if usually_ _ **unused**_ _) pair are sort of part of the deal, if your surname is Holmes_.

From the corner of his eye John sees Loki move forwards, one hand held delicately out before him. John follows his line of sight and sees a tiny pinprick of wavering red light hanging, suspended in thin air. Its colour seems to… bleed into everything surrounding it, the very air in which it hangs wavering as if it emits great heat. It looks beautiful to John, but somehow...dangerous? Hungry? too. Loki reaches out and makes to touch it, his eyes glittering with something, something glittering and excited and ragged-edged and feral-

"Loki," he hears Molly say quietly. "Loki, you can't."

And she leaves Sherlock's side, walks over to her boyfriend.

_Sherlock does not, needless to say, look happy with this eventuality._

"Why?" Loki mutters. "It's calling me… It wants me…"

Molly puts her hand on his arm. Squeezes. "Maybe," she says calmly. "But you don't want it. Not after last time." She stands on her tiptoes, kisses his cheek. Turns his had to face her despite the slightly forlorn look this produces in Sherlock. "No, love," she says firmly. "No. Pure magic is too dangerous for you: Remember Nornheim."

And as if coming out of a daze Loki blinks. Looks at her. Looks down at her hand on him, then back up into her eyes. For a split second longer that glittering, hungry expression continues, prompting both John and Sherlock to take a protective step towards her-

And then, as suddenly as it arrived, it's gone. Loki moves away from the glowing orb of light, takes a deep breath, pushes it out through his nose. Takes Molly's palm and presses it to his lips- "thank you, sweet," he murmurs into her skin as Sherlock pouts- before turning to face Mycroft Holmes.

The look on his face is not exactly comforting.

Mycroft however, being Mycroft, merely straightens himself up, his trusty brolly held before him like a weapon. His expression is, to be kind, unrepentant.

_Personally, John would go with smug, self-satisfied berk to describe it, but hey, that's just him._

Loki gets within three steps of him and stops. Looks at the umbrella's tip askance, then smiles. That shark-like grin of his is really rather intimidating.

"Ah, you've brought some protection," the alien says. He gestures to the umbrella's tip. "Dwarvish technology, unless I'm very much mistaken. And on Midgard too- The Norns will be less than pleased to discover you have that."

Mycroft shrugs. Makes a show of looking at his fingernails. "And what makes you think they didn't give it to me?" he asks dismissively. "You don't honestly imagine you and your brother came here without some rather… intricate negotiations on our part, now do you?" His smile is predatory. "We Brits are rather more cautious than our colonial brethren, after all." He sniffs. "More clever, too."

Loki throws back his head and laughs. "You, negotiate?" he barks. "As if this tiny mud-riddled orb-" There's a chorus of protesting Hey!s from the humans in the room- "could honestly stop another realm if they tried to come here-"

Again Mycroft shrugs. "We- what is that phrase Agent Barton uses? Ah yes: kicked your skinny arse back to Asgard last time," he says placidly. "Do you think that we couldn't do it again?" And he nods to Sherlock. John. He doesn't look at Molly. "The tools are here. The know-how too," he says calmly. "For all you know, this is some sort of simulation to test how you'd react- After all, isn't that what our glowing little friend over there specialises in?"

And Mycroft nods to the mysterious pinprick of red light, smiling.

The glare from it makes him look slightly diabolical; The bowler hat doesn't help.

John sees understanding flit across Loki's face- "Oh, I say," he mutters, "a portal in both time, dimension and space, that's rather good, that is,"- and the dark-haired man smiles. Walks back over to the red light as Mycroft inclines his head in what is obviously false humility. He looks at Mycroft slyly. "But isn't setting up something like this a little dangerous for someone like you?" he asks. "Considering what might happen?"

Mycroft's smile is icy. "Danger is my middle name," he intones solemnly- Sherlock, John and Molly all treat this assertion with the contempt it deserves and he shoots them a look of magnificent disdain. "Besides," Mycroft points out, "I'm far too clever to have made a mistake with something so basic as this-"

And he grins insolently. Leans on his (apparently magical) umbrella.

John somehow doubts that owning an enchanted umbrella is going to do anything to enhance Mycroft Holmes' capacity for either humility or cop on. But then he doubts a meeting with the Almighty could do that. Loki snorts though, moves away from the elder Holmes and towards the light: This time though the orb does not appear to have so hypnotic an effect on him.

_In fact, this time he doesn't look wary of it at all._

"Thor," he calls instead, directing his voice to the pinprick of light. He sounds as if he's speaking into a phone with a particularly bad connection. "Thor, brother dearest, are you and your little lady friend in there?" The light flares, grows brighter for a moment. Loki grins. "What are you doing?" he calls, "that you had to sneak away from this plane of existence? And is it something that Father won't like? Because if it is I want to help…"

The light brightens again, widens, and from the corner of his eye John sees Sherlock ghost forward, equally fascinated. But when he gets to just outside Loki's line of vision Molly takes his elbow. Stalls him. Sherlock looks at her, frowning, but she shakes her head, murmurs something too quick for John to make out. It looks surprisingly funny to see Molly manoeuvre herself in front of Sherlock; she's watching Loki and the little scarlet bauble of light as if her life depended on it. Keeping her body between Sherlock and her boyfriend and oh but that is interesting.

 _John's fairly certain however that he doesn't want to find out_ _ **why**_.

Not that he has time to do anything about it, though. Loki grins and shoots Molly a smile, apparently unwilling to get annoyed though Sherlock is so near her.  _Maybe he really is looking forward to seeing his brother,_ John thinks. As soon as his attention is turned away from the orb though it balloons out, rapidly expanding in size until it's about the circumference of a manhole cover. Something moves in it, a shadow against the brightness: there's a silhouette of what looks like a large, masculine hand waving a cudgel? Hammer? Some sort of medieval weapon of the big, blunt, Cimmerian sort? John frowns, trying to get a closer look, and suddenly the orb's red light turns blinding, brightening until even John has to shield his eyes-

"Oh bugger," he hears Loki mutter, and soldier that he is John knows that can bode no good.

A boom sounds then - rather like the boom that preceded them being brought here- and without any warning the orb stretches out to the width of a London bus, a blast of heat smashing into John and nearly knocking both he and Sherlock off their feet. He hears a whoosh as if a massive amount of air is being displaced and then suddenly shadow and light are battling one another in the portal, flickering like wildfire against the walls of the Mycroft Cave. The sound as sweeping wings-  _massive_ sweeping wings- fill the cavernous space, and as John watches something enormous simply flies through the orb of light and out into the room, as easily as a bird might fly through a window. The only difference being that that's physically possible and what John's seeing really, really, isn't. Because the thing which has exited the orb is not a bird. It's a dragon.

A giant, copper and jade, can-anyone-direct-me-to-the-Lonely-Mountain-please-I-swear-I'm-not-a-burglar  _dragon._

_And John might be getting paranoid in his old age, but he thinks it looks a bit… miffed._

Not that he has long to ponder that though: The dragon opens its jaws and lets out a violently inhuman roar, so loud the ground actually shakes beneath John's feet.  _Yup,_  he thinks,  _it's definitely miffed_. As he presses his hands to his ears he feels the back draft of the creature swooping into the air press against him, watches as it darts around the Mycroft Cave, flicking a long, spiked tail at every occupant of the room. Even Mycroft doesn't escape its ire though he's poking at it- somewhat ridiculously- with his umbrella. With nary a pause it swats him aside, its eyes narrow in on Loki though. It hisses, diving downwards to strike with deadly precision: The Asgardian yelps- there is no other way to describe that sound he makes- and darts out of its way, his walking stick starting to glow with an eerie emerald light as he tries to draw the thing away from the humans (or alternatively, simply tries to run away, John's not sure which).

There's a loud string of curses and John spins to see Sherlock grab Molly and pull her out of the dragon's way just in time (something which might be the single weirdest thing he's ever thought). Watches his friend swing her into him, shielding her body with his as the dragon glances by them, its tail snaking out to try and strike again at Loki. Sherlock grabs Molly bodily and hauls them into a relatively safe corner, pulling her tightly against him even as the dragon twists sinuously in the air and makes for Loki once more, swift and deadly and inescapable. Its eyes are sharp, intelligent, bright, but something moves in them, something which John almost fancies might be… emotion?

_And by emotion, he means unbelievable, uncontrollable rage._

Loki follows his line of vision, sees what he sees. As Watson watches recognition flickers through the other man's face, something curious, then understanding, then panicked moving in his eyes' depths. The dragon twists in midair and dives, taking another shot at the alien. As it does so Loki starts yelling to it, his voice slightly panicked, his eyes wide. "Sweet," he's calling it, "Sweet, now you need to calm down-"

The dragon gives another inhuman howl of rage, but this time the sound separates, twists and winds until it becomes recognisable words. "Calm down," the dragon hisses, and though its voice is inhuman it sounds almost… feminine to John's ears. "Calm down? You do this to me, you lying, cheating, heartless, faithless  _ganchree fwachach-_ "

Loki tries to speak over it. "Now, name calling is completely unnecessary, Sig," he says. "You and I both agreed we needed a break-"

The dragon's tail collides with one of the computer banks, just beside Loki's head. I explodes in a shower of sparks. "A break from each other," the creature screeches. "I did not need a break from having opposable thumbs-"

And the dragon- Sweet Sig, apparently- dives at him again, opening her mouth and spraying the entire room in fire. Loki swears but doesn't seem worried; the dragon must notice because her eyes scan the room and they come to rest on Sherlock and Molly, both still huddled in their protected corner. At seeing the creature's gaze, Sherlock pushes Molly behind him and tries to square up to the beast-  _of course he does,_ John thinks,  _the pillock-_ but the dragon isn't interested in him. Her eyes come to rest on Molly instead, and there's something entirely feminine and completely terrifying in her gaze-

_Something which John recognises from the last time he and Mary ran into one of his exes._

The dragon lands lightly, folding her wings in on herself and tilting her head, snaking her elongated neck out towards Molly. Her jaws open, showing row upon row of silver-bright, razor-sharp teeth. Sherlock's presence seems utterly immaterial to her- it's not like one little human's going to present much of a challenge to her, after all- and she shuffles closer to Molly, hissing. Sneering. Snapping her jaws, and John is reminded of nothing so much as a cat toying with a mouse. The dragon's eyes are bright as emeralds and pitiless as hellfire, every ounce of her considerable concentration focussed on Hooper. Loki hisses something, makes a gesture with his walking stick but though several versions of him appear the dragon sends him a derisory glance, neither impressed nor fooled-

And then with a single, terrifyingly quick flick of her tail she sends the "puny god," flying.

Silence descends then, for a beat. The dragon staring at Molly and Sherlock, Molly and Sherlock staring at the dragon. Hooper tries to push herself in front of Sherlock, but he won't let her; They glance at one another in irritation, apparently on the verge of another argument, the danger of the giant, fire-breathing reptile apparently forgotten. Sig rears back on her haunches suddenly though, bats at Sherlock with her tail. Her jaws open, flame flying out and Holmes is sent flying. John runs to him, knowing that unlike Loki he's going to be in need of medical help. Loki cries out, calls to Molly from where he's fallen. He appears suddenly before her, reaching for her even as the dragon's flames surround her, an army of replicas of himself filling the room but it's too late. Sig has Molly cornered and John suspects that she's moved on from  _miffed_ to  _royally bloody pissed_. It's the furious look on her reptilian face which gives the game away.

There's a spit of flame, a scream as it comes for Molly.

Sig darts into the air, claws extended, her destination and motivation clear.

Molly looks around, terrified, trying to find a way out, a way to escape all this-

Which is when the gay porn star with the hammer whom John's Mrs. fancies-  _Thor, they call him-_ appears. He lands on the beast's back, shoots Molly a rakish wink and proceeds to smash the beast on the jaw with his massively big… tool. Laughing like an idiot and calling to his brother to join in with him. If this is what family bonding looks like on Asgard, John finds himself thinking, no wonder one of them tries to take over the world. Loki forces himself into standing, bringing his staff down on the beast even as Molly runs clear and makes her way to Sherlock.  _It's probably telling that she's more interested in his safety than she is in watching two gods fight a dragon for her_ , John knows. The two aliens rain down blows on the beast, laughing as if this is all some great lark, some great adventure-

But Molly sees none of it, though: her eyes are all for Sherlock.

John suspects he's be really delighted with that, if he had a bloody pulse.

* * *

A/N What could happen next? Interested? Let a hobbit know. Hobbits away, hey!


	6. Break Like The Wind

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for her beta goes to the awesome Katya Jade, and thanks for their reviews go to strangedazey, DP, springbok7, Ryvyan and Len. Work away and enjoy!

* * *

_~ Break Like The Wind ~_

* * *

_Sherlock is feeling no pain._

_He's floating, suspended in warmth and heat and happiness. Suspended in light and joy and good things. Nice things. Warm things. Slightly illegal and addictive things but what's a higher functioning sociopath to do? It feels almost like being stoned but… cuddlier, somehow, and he can't help himself, he wants to grin at the world in delight-_

_"Sherlock," he hears Molly's voice murmuring, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"_

_She sounds like she's speaking from somewhere very far away._

_And he opens his eyes to see Molly, standing in the front room of Baker Street. It's a bright summer day, sunlight pouring in the windows, and she's grinning at him. She's wearing her lab coat and the silly hat- what's it John called it, a deerstalker? A Sherlock Holmes hat?- and her hair is down. It gleams, russet and brown, in the buttery light. Her brown eyes are gleaming too. She also doesn't happen to be wearing anything else and Sherlock can't help but reflect that that's just, well, it's kind of, quite, wonderful-_

_No, Sherlock thinks groggily, not quite wonderful. It's Completely Wonderful._

_Molly Hooper with her hair down, wearing a lab coat and his hat, is the most Completely Wonderful thing he's ever seen._

_Their eyes meet then and her grin turns brighter: She starts walking towards him, sashaying almost, and when she gets a couple of feet in front of him she pushes the lab-coat from her shoulders and lets it pool at her feet. (Well, as much as NHS-issue cotton is ever going to pool). Sherlock does not picture naked women very often, nor does he let them distract him: Even The Woman did not manage to completely shock him into stillness. But the sight of Molly Hooper, wearing his hat and nothing else? That's even better than Completely Wonderful. That's the sort of thing that holds his attention, asinine and brutish as it may be. Because there's just something so unbelievably satisfying about seeing her attired thus, something so tantalizing and right-_

_"Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?"_

_There's a string of muffled curse words and the very walls of Baker Street seem to shake. A new voice intrudes upon his reverie._

_"Sherlock, I think you're concussed: if you're conscious then I need you to answer me-"_

_The new voice is getting louder and though he wishes to ignore it, he looks up to see John standing to his left, wearing exactly the same outfit though his nakedness is mercifully blocked by the couch in the living room. Thankfully, the hat does not look nearly so becoming on him as it does on Molly, which probably bodes well for Sherlock's relationship with the new Mrs. Watson. The detective frowns and pouts- dammit, why on Earth would his subconscious throw that at him?- And as he does he feels a twinge of pain somewhere on his left side. Feels a strong grip he recognises as John's digging into his body and attempting to lift him. He turns to look at Molly and as he does so he sees her smiling expression turn sad, lost, upset-_

And then suddenly the brightness of Baker Street is gone, and he's opening his eyes to darkness.

He coughs, his body shaking, and it takes him but moments to remember where he is and what just happened.

 _Oh yes_ , he thinks groggily.  _I successfully picked a fight with a dragon. Huzzah. Mummy would be **so**  proud of me._

He frowns, cogitating on this thought.

 _Mycroft_ , he decides,  _not so much. But that doesn't matter because he's a git. And I fought a dragon, so that makes me better than him: Yay!_

Sherlock manages to haltingly turn his head then, stretching to see an upset, crying Molly Hooper staring down at him. She looks rather worried, and the sight of those large, brown eyes is somewhat… discombobulating.

He blames this fact for what he says next.

"You're not wearing the hat," he mutters, and oh but he wishes that wasn't the first thing he'd said to her when he opened his eyes.

He still remembers that headline from the  _Daily Mail_ , even if she doesn't.

 _See,_ he thinks, _this is why I ignore my man parts, as John calls them._

_They make me say and do the most inordinately stupid things._

Molly blinks uncomprehendingly down at him though, thankfully not making the connection with Janine (or any other ridiculous, libidinous fantasy he might have had). She lets John take over- Sherlock is immeasurably pleased to find his best friend both clothed and hatless in real life- and moves to stand guard against while Loki and Thor-  _It's obviously Thor,_  Sherlock thinks disjointedly,  _I can see the hammer_ \- go to work subduing the beast. It's odd, Sherlock thinks, seeing her be so proactive and, well, kickarse. So protective of him, and so competent and take-charge. He suspects he likes it, and oh but he hopes neither Mary nor John figure that out because he'll never hear the end of it.

Though for some reason he doesn't want to dwell on, he suspects that his mother wouldn't be surprised at all.

So he elects to keep it to himself. It's probably easier for Molly that way. John is working quickly, ascertaining whether Sherlock is hurt easily and looking him over. They've been through so many close calls together that he can supply most of the pertinent information without being prompted. The mere fact that he can do so is usually enough to satisfy John, though Watson does mention that he'll have one Helluva lump on the back of his head tomorrow. Holmes creakingly sits up, takes in his surroundings. Runs through any useful information he may possess. To wit: He is trapped in a lair built by his older brother (possibly using alien technology and/or magic) while two characters from Norse myth fight a legendary beast which seems to want to harm him and the people he loves, specifically Molly-

It's not actually the oddest situation he's ever woken up in, and that in itself is a somewhat comforting thought, he has to allow.

He looks at both John and Molly's upset faces and decides that sharing this information with them both would be rather less than helpful, given their current situation.

"Right, so," John says creakingly, helping Sherlock as he tries to get to his feet. "I vote we run like the clappers and leave Nigel and David over there-" he gestures to Thor and Loki and for some reason Molly snickers- "to sort this out. They're all muscly and Asgardian: They'll be fine with it." Watson looks around Sherlock and Molly. "All in favour say aye?"

"Aye," Sherlock manages to croak.

He will not be fighting any dragons again in the near future, that one kicked his arse.

"Aye," John says.

Sherlock suspects he has no love lost for either of the brothers Odinsson.

Molly though, being Molly, does not say aye. In fact, Molly, being Molly, has to object. "But what about Mycroft?" she asks. "We can't just leave him here, surely?"

She gestures to where the elder Holmes is pressed against one of his banks of computers, his umbrella held before him like a weapon. He can't get past the dragon.

The last time he'd looked this nervous, Sherlock reflects, he'd stolen Uncle Rudy's prized diamante Bollywood tiara for a Halloween costume and Mummy had found out about it. As had Rudy.

_That had probably been the most entertaining holiday of Sherlock's entire childhood._

For a moment the younger Holmes stares at his brother, very tempted to tell Molly that they can indeed leave him there- He has his suspicions about who forced Thor into whatever realm that dragon just escaped from, and he doesn't think inter-dimensional banishment is something he should encourage his brother in.  _As Mummy has always said, one must learn from one's mistakes._  But he can tell just by looking at Molly's face that she's not going to agree. She's going to consider it one of those feelings things, wherein one has to do something difficult and painful because one cares about the recipient of one's actions. It's normally boring and unnecessary (in fact, it should be completely unnecessary for Mycroft, the man is practically indestructible) but she won't see it that way, and Sherlock knows she won't.

And besides, he doesn't want her thinking he'd leave his only brother to face a dragon alone, even if he doesn't believe it would best him-

If Molly Hooper believes he's not as nice as the sociopathic scamp who decimated half of Manhattan then he's really going to have to go on a charm initiative to get back into her good graces.

So he hauls himself into standing and nods to Molly. He and John exchange the manliest looks they can manage and he realises that Watson agrees. "Of course," he says. "I'll go get Brother Dearest-" He makes to move and he can't move; Molly has to catch him.

His knees no longer appear to be working and loath as he is to admit it, he's a little embarrassed by that.

"How about I go and get him?" John suggests tersely. He shrugs at Sherlock and Molly's looks. "What? I was a soldier, I know about stealth-"

Sherlock snorts. "Stealth's got nothing to do with it: You're built like a hobbit, you'll never move him-"

John looks affronted. "I've carried men on my back across enemy lines, Sherlock Holmes: I was a doctor-"

"And don't we all know it-"

John crosses his arms. "Don't you take that tone with me, it's not my fault we're here-"

Sherlock throws his arms up. "And it's mine? I'm not the one being all pally with the alien sociopath-" He gestures to Loki.

"No, you're the one related to Voldemort over there-" John gestures to Mycroft.

Sherlock scoffs, sputtering. Molly rolls her eyes heavenward. "Oh, for the love of God," she mutters. " _I'll_  go-"

Sherlock and John both blink at her. Frown. Suddenly their argument is forgotten. "But you can't go," Sherlock says.

Molly shoots him an unimpressed cocked eyebrow. Oh can't I? it seems to say. Sherlock shakes his head, he has to make her see.

"You can't go," he says reasonably. "You're a little, tiny person! You're _my_  little tiny person! You could fit inside my pocket, and if John's not capable of hauling Mycroft's backside out of here then you're certainly not going to be able to do it-"

John frowns at him more deeply and it occurs to Sherlock that he may have hit his head harder than he'd thought: It wouldn't normally have occurred to him to tell Molly that he was aware of how tiny, how teensy, how wee, his favourite pathologist is. Just as it wouldn't normally have occurred to him to tell her that sometimes he thinks about her living inside one of his shirt pockets and travelling around solving crimes with him. He'd put her in there and carry her about all day, and when he took her out she'd hula dance on his palm in nothing but go-go boots and her lab coat and his silly hat and oh, Sherlock suddenly realises, maybe he's not as ok as he thought he was… In fact, he thinks he might not be fine at all… Because he just said that bit with her being naked and teensy and dancing on his palm out loud and judging by the look on her face, it's not something she's happy about…

He sinks to the ground, feeling light-headed-He hears John mutter something about the fine line between clever and stupid, but he elects to leave that alone- and as he does so sees Molly and John share matching, bewildered looks.

_That can't be good._

He also sees Loki grin at him over his shoulder, that staff of his glowing green. He's gesturing towards Sherlock and that's when the detective realises: His Ponceness is using his, his, whatdoyoucallit, his mojo on him. That's why he's saying stupid things, not the concussion.

A swell of nausea rises in him and Sherlock is forced to allow that it may be a teensy, tiny bit about the concussion. But mainly, it's Loki being a wanker.  _The twat._

Molly follows Sherlock's line of vision though and sees Loki gesturing towards him. By this point, he and Thor have managed to subdue Sig the Dragon to the extent that she's not breathing fire anymore. She's really just twitching and snarling, most of the fight gone out of her. Casting baleful glances at Thor and vicious ones at Loki. Molly must realise what the younger Odinsson intends to do to Sherlock- he looks quite miffed, even if Holmes says so himself- because she lets out a small, angry yell, moving in front of him. Crossing her arms and shielding him, telling Loki in no uncertain terms "to knock that nonsense off." Loki frowns at her words, irritated, and Sherlock takes this opportunity to shoot him his most irritating grin, making sure to go back to looking haggard and helpless when Molly looks back at him-

 _Ha! See how Loki likes it,_  Holmes thinks.

_And besides, this is clearly proof that Molly likes **me**  best._

The Asgardian understands what Holmes is up to all too well, judging by the way he glares at Sherlock: He also doesn't seem to like having his own methods turned against him, that much is obvious from how angrily he reacts. Because he raises his arm, muttering something vindictive-sounding and curt under his breath. Extends his hand, clearly ready to hurl some sort of spell?- blast?- at Sherlock. He's breathing heavily, clearly amped up on adrenaline and anger: Sherlock doesn't think Loki means to hurt Molly but with her standing in front of him, that's what he's going to do. And the muppet doesn't even seem to realise, Sherlock thinks to himself.

_How precisely does one live for millennia upon millennia and not learn a little something about cause and effect?_

But clearly the younger Odinsson isn't thinking about the potential fallout of his actions. His glittering, agitated eyes are enough to convince Holmes of that. Sherlock sees the danger, tries to force himself to his feet. Tries to save Molly from Loki's blast, to make sure no harm will come to her after all, since he's the one who thought goading the immortal super-being who walked away from a fight with The Hulk was a capital idea. But it's too late, his legs won't take his weight. The swell of sickness within him making him dizzy- He prepares to kick something- anything- at Loki to distract the alien, take his ire off Molly- "John," he yells, "John, a little help over here-"

But he needn't have bothered, because at the moment Loki's blast leaves his staff and heads towards Molly, Thor jumps directly in front of her, taking the blow into himself and saving her. He manages- irritatingly- to look quite dashing in the process.

_He's also landed squarely on Sherlock's legs, but what's the weight of a heavily-muscled ancient alien prince and all of his weaponry between friends, hmm?_

Loki snarls and Thor smiles at Molly before shooting his brother a quelling look. For a moment Loki seems angry and then his expression clears, the realisation of what he nearly did to his girlfriend sinking in. His expression turns contrite as he moves towards Molly and tries to embrace her though she turns away from him. John rolls his eyes heavenward in disgust and Mycroft mutters something which sounds distinctly like "thank you, Jesus," but nobody's entirely sure. And anyway, it's probably his fault that they're all here. Sherlock tries to force himself upright but he can't and as soon as she realises Molly gives out a startled little moue of hurt and hunkers down beside him, Loki entirely forgotten-

They're all so busy reacting that they don't see Sig the Dragon get to her feet and extend her wings outwards. The look she shoots Loki is… wretched. Heartbroken.

Without another word she takes off like a bat out of Hell (or a dragon out of Middle-Earth) and smashes her way out of the Mycroft Cave and into the great metropolis beyond, and it's at this point that John- rather eloquently- points out that, "We're fucked."

Sherlock finds that he has to agree.


	7. Hooper-Sexuals Anonymous

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the awesome Katya Jade- as always, your suggestions were the best. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, now enjoy!

* * *

_~ Hooper-Sexuals Anonymous ~_

* * *

Mary Watson is having herself a normal day.

You know, get up, make breakfast. Go through your secret weapons stash. Call sick into work, head down to the joint SHIELD/MI-13 practice range underneath Tower Hill and go through basic Asgardian weapons training with your old friend Natasha Romanova. Spend the couple of hours after that knocking the crap out of a former boyfriend (Clint Barton) and trying to convince him to just put on the big boy undies and ask his partner to dinner already, because his I'm Married To The Job shtick is fooling no-one, least of all you. (And you and Molly both have this month in the Avengers' office pool for when he and Tasha finally do the deed and it's up to a grand, so ka-ching!).

When all of that is finished, she's going to pick up John (presuming he's not been arrested or hospitalised, either of which is possible since he's with Sherlock) and bring him out to dinner. SHIELD has finally agreed to pay for all that freelance work she carried out in Eastern Europe so she's going to be able to make with the readies- The Marylebone Road and a steak dinner are calling-

Which is, of course, when a dragon- a bloody dragon- flies out from underneath Tower Hill and into the greater London area, an event which tells Mary that she's not going to have a normal day. Not. At. All.

_Funnily enough, seeing mythical creatures descend upon the nation's capital will do that for you._

So she pulls out her phone and calls Tasha. Asks if she's got eyes on the Tower and if anything has shown up on the obligatory Twitter or Facebook feeds, cos this is going to be a PR nightmare. Normally she'd call Coulson but she doesn't think Tasha knows he's still alive and she's not touching that situation with a ten foot pole. A few moments after she hangs up one of her old SHIELD contacts, Pete Wisdom, gets back in touch to say that yes, indeed, they are aware of dragon sightings around London Tower and they're telling people it's a publicity stunt for the next  _Lord of the Rings_  movie. This would be a great deal more credible, of course, if the dragon weren't currently sitting atop Windsor Castle and spewing flames at sundry Japanese and American tourists, but one makes of these situations what one must.  _That's the British Way, apparently._  Mary agrees, hangs up and decides that now might be a great time to find her husband and his best friend, if only so that they don't end up getting char-grilled by Puff the Pissed Off Dragon-

Which is when she spies a familiar long, floppy coat and a similarly familiar blond head milling down Tower Hill, screaming bloody murder and scattering tourists left, right and centre. A small female figure- Molly?- is with them, and two men in capes trail behind. The blond man in the cape appears to be carrying someone and as they get nearer she realises that it's Mycroft Holmes, his bowler hat perched precariously atop his head and his umbrella held tightly against his chest.

_She's seen small children hold onto their teddy bears less tightly._

Mycroft is beaming up at the blond man carrying him-  _Thor_ , she realises,  _in that position I'd be bloody beaming too_ \- and is looking not the least bit put out by his position. Loki is galloping inelegantly after Molly, nearly tripping on his cape as he tries to catch up. His expression is somehow both contrite and stubborn; He's gesticulating animatedly as he goes and Molly is studiedly, furiously, ignoring him. Sherlock is keeping pace beside Molly, occasionally shooting brave, half-wincing smiles at Molly which cause Loki to roll his eyes in disgust. As Sherlock gets closer Mary realises that John and Molly are holding him upright-

 _Five hours_ , Mary thinks,  _he's been gone **five hours**  and he's gotten himself into trouble._

She fights the urge to smack him on the back of the head and instead prays for patience, because let's face it: Having Sherlock in your life is like being responsible for a toddler who can vote, own a firearm and drive.  _Oh, and let's not forget, fight crime._

The little group come to a halt in front of her and she doesn't even hesitate. She has the funniest feeling she's going to be describing this conversation to Nick Fury- or a psychiatrist- in the days to come. So-

"This," Mary announces, "is going to be confusing. I can just tell. So how's about you explain it while I try to scramble the Avengers and the Met tries to evacuate the busiest tourist destination in London, hmm?"

John nods, looking relieved. Loki scowls, looking pissed off. Thor's expression reminds her of a child on Christmas morning- "So I shall enjoy another bout with my team-members from New York?" he asks. "Excellent!" - And he beams at Mycroft, at Mary, at John even, talking happily about how he hasn't fought a dragon in aaaggges-

Mary nods, patently ignoring the weird looking-shyly-at-one-another thing Molly and Sherlock have going on now that they've all stopped running, and the entire group make for the nearest SHIELD checkpoint, which happens to be in front of the Tower Hill Tube Station. Tasha's already there, as are Clint Barton and Tony Stark. The millionaire looks up, takes one look at John and hands Tasha a twenty.

"You're totally right," Stark says. "She married a mini-Clint. I shouldn't have doubted ya, Red-"

John swears, both loudly and colourfully, while Loki and Mycroft snicker and once again Mary thinks to herself that this is going to be a Bloody. Long. Day.

_But on the plus side she's armed, and now licensed to shoot people again, so it's not all bad, now is it?_

* * *

By the time they get Sherlock as far as the SHIELD check-point, Mary has decided that Mycroft Holmes is- contrary to oft-quoted opinion- a moron.

After all, how else could one explain a man with no magical abilities whatsoever, and only the most rudimentary understanding of those powers his government has encountered, thinking that he should just start opening inter-dimensional portals willy-nilly?

How else could one explain an apparently intelligent individual thinking that exiling a member of the Asgardian royal family to some sort of magical hinterland would carry no discernible consequences?

And how else does one explain the supposedly smartest Holmes brother believing that Thor's penchant for teaching the local Peckham kids how to feed, ride and look after a grexhyanore (that's Asgardian for rock monster, peasant) would be considered a reasonable excuse for exiling the elder Odinsson to another dimension when SHIELD and MI:13 came to ask him about it?

The answer to all of these questions is that there is no way that an intelligent person would believe any of those things, and thus, Mary decides, Mycroft Holmes must be a moron.

In fact, he has managed to make his baby brother look like the sensible member of the family, and by the look on his face as he finishes his explanation, even he understands how worrying a notion that is.

"So let me get this straight," Tasha is saying. "When you realised that Thor was coming to live in London, you took one of MI:13's confiscated Books of Magic and started randomly practicing spells? And you didn't think that might go… awry?"

She's looking terribly Soviet, staring down her nose at Mycroft as if he's grown another head and the assembled, fully suited-up Avengers (Clint, Steve, Bruce and, God help them, Tony) all look like they agree with her.

Molly and John would both probably agree too, but they're too busy fussing over Sherlock to keep close track of the conversation.

Loki looks about as pleased with this fact as a puppy might be with swallowing a wasp.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Yes, well, when put in those terms one might not perhaps see the wisdom of my choice," he allows.

Thor hasn't put him down yet- he's injured apparently, though Mary can see no evidence of it- and he looks rather happy with this arrangement.

"However," Mycroft continues, "you must understand, my dear Agent Romanova-" Tasha snorts something in Russian which clearly illustrates her feelings about being called dear by anyone- "that every single thing in my life which I have attempted to master, I have excelled at." Mycroft preens, looking much like his younger brother. "I'm sure that with a more thorough grounding in the theory-"

"Nonsense!" Loki snaps, speaking over him. He has, apparently, momentarily given up on trying to regain Molly's attention; He might not notice the delighted grin Sherlock gives at this but Mary sure as Hell does. When Molly looks down at him though Sherlock, Mary swears, gives her puppy-dog eyes.

Mary can only hope that he takes some of that can-do attitude and puts it into finally getting somewhere with Molly. God knows, she's done enough to help them on their way.

"Were you to study for a millennia, little man," Loki is saying, "you would not be able to master magic." He looks at his brother, as if for confirmation, and Thor nods. Loki's eyes stray momentarily to Molly and then, inexplicably, in the direction of Windsor Castle from whence the dragon's roars can clearly be heard.

"It is an art, not a science," he says. "You do not master magic, you accept that it will master you and then you learn to live with your new paramour. You move into her power, into her thrall. Magic takes you whole, makes you anew…"

And he trails off again, his eyes once more sliding in the direction of the dragon's roars before he suddenly seems to come back to himself.

For a split second, he looks almost bereft, his gaze darting to Molly guiltily, but then he draws himself up, some of his old bravado returning. He shoots Molly another look to see if she's noticed, but she only has eyes for Sherlock and it would appear that Loki likes that not at all.

Mary can't really say she blames him. A beat.

"You are not the same after you become a magician," he says eventually. Quietly. "You never are. It is, in a very real sense, like falling in love."

Mycroft scoffs- "sentiment," he snorts- and Loki's grin becomes sharp. Predatory. For a moment he looks every inch the man who invaded Manhattan.

"And that is my point entirely, my would-be mage," he says sarcastically. "You have no heart to give. No passion. No fire.  _You_  cannot be a magician." Mycroft opens his mouth to contradict the Asgardian but Loki speaks over him. "You know in your heart I speak the truth, little mortal," he says, "Do not try to convince me otherwise-"

 _Okay, this is all going a little Game of Thrones, Mary thinks, and since the hobbits have been taken to Isengard, I sense a great disturbance in the Force and we may be about to start kneeling to Zod, I'm going to have to move things along._  So-

"I get that you've got all this deep, dark magical mystery going on," she interrupts, "but lads, can anyone explain what we're going to do about the giant, flame-spewing reptile that's currently sitting on top of Windsor Castle, hmm? Since that would seem to be the priority here."

She looks over her shoulder at the Avengers and they all- Tasha included- look a little shame-faced. Even Loki looks put out.

From the corner of her eye, Mary sees John shoot them all his patented, that's right, listen to my Mrs. face, and she has to fight the urge to grin.

"I mean," Mary says, "we're going to need a plan to deal with this. And aren't you lot supposed to be Earth's Mightiest Heroes? Isn't that what is says on the Kellogg's box?" She rocks back on her heels, crosses her arms tartly. "Or are you just going to let the population of London get flame-grilled while you try to establish the limits of Mycroft Holmes epic git-hood?"

Loki, Thor, Tasha, Clint, Bruce, even Sherlock and Mycroft open their mouths in unison to answer but shut them. Even the great Tony Stark looks slightly guilty.

"Wow," he mutters, "being married to a Mini-Clint has made you mean, Mary."

Mary shoots Iron Man the look that everyone who knows him shoots him eventually. It's the Y _ou Are Only Alive Because I Have No Weapon To Hand_  look.

Apparently Tony understands it because he instinctively takes a step back, and Mary gets that warm glow that only comes from knowing a major super-hero is slightly scared of you.

 _Nice to know I still have it_ , she thinks.

Steve clears his throat though. "Okay then guys, lady's got a point so here's the game-plan," he says grimly. Good Catholic boy that he is, the guilt-trip has apparently worked. "Tony, this bogey is airborne so I need you to fly in, distract her-"

Tony crosses his arms. "You want me to piss off a giant flying reptile, Cap?" he drawls.

A ghost of a smile flits across Rogers' face. "I don't want you to, I've just accepted that it's likely. If you can get her off the Castle you can bring the party to us, yeah?"

Stark nods- "Can do,"- and then takes off into the sky like the small, shiny, overly-indulged, human comet that he is. Even Mycroft looks impressed by it.

Steve shakes his head in amusement. "Show off," Mary hears him mutter affectionately.

"Stick in the mud!" Tony yells back. Apparently the suit's hearing is just that good.

Rogers laughs and divvies up the tasks for the rest of the attack plan, sending Clint and Tasha in back, telling Loki and Thor to go in front since, being immortal, they're going to be useful as dragon-bait. ("Stupid human ethnic profiling," the younger Odinsson pouts at this, but at least he looks like he's going to play ball). The last person Rogers asks to suit up is Banner- one always asks The Hulk- and at this Molly looks up from Sherlock and gives Bruce a tiny nod of encouragement. She shifts herself protectively in front of Sherlock as he transforms- Mary's going to ask what that's about later- and as she does so Banner lets out a howling growl of rage, loud enough to set even the hairs on the back of Mary's neck on end.

He takes off at a fierce clip, setting sundry passers by darting out of his way-

"I really hope he doesn't run into the average London cabbie before he gets to Windsor Castle," Sherlock mutters.

Molly snorts. "I think he can handle it, if he does."

The two share another small fond look, despite Loki's obvious disgust. It's topped by another small, fond smile and Mary must fight the urge to squee a little in excitement-  _Finally, Sherlock_ , she thinks,  _you're getting your head out of your arse on this one-_

_I only had to send her to another continent and introduce her to a bunch of superheroes to get you moving-_

And naturally this is the moment when things go to hell in a handbasket.

Because apparently that last little look between Molly and Sherlock is the last straw for Loki Odinsson's sense of Zen.


	8. That Cape Is Not Made From Boyfriend Material

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta-read by the awesome Katya Jade. Sorry for the delay in updates, but I wasn't feeling very cheerful for a while there, and that's what this one needs. Of course, then I discovered the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain and now I'm cheerful again. So enjoy!

* * *

~  _That Cape Is Not Made From Boyfriend Material ~_

* * *

"Ok, that's it!"

And Loki practically throws himself between Sherlock and Molly, looking like nothing so much as an overly sugar-hyped toddler. His arms crossed over his chest petulantly, his handsome face puffed with anger. The cape makes it all seem even more ridiculous, his sputtering, furious snarls looking almost comical as he angrily paces between the two, muttering viciously about how Sherlock is a whoreson and an idiot and how the Eighties called and they want their perm back and how Molly is  _his_ girlfriend and he's by far the more sexually adventurous and charming option so she's going to bloody well choose him, dammit-

He's moving so fast he nearly trips on the hem of his cloak, just catching himself in time and earning snickers from the Watsons and Sherlock. Holmes grins: He's going to go out on a limb and suggest that His Immortal Gitness is a bit pissed off.

He does not have a problem with that.

One look at John and Mary's amused faces tells him his deduction is completely correct-  _And that they don't have a problem with it either._

Molly is staring at Loki though, her expression somewhere between bemused and horrified. The last time he saw her look at anyone like that, she was stabbing Tom "Meat Dagger," Jenkins in the hand with a plastic fork, a thought which warms the black lump of tar which passes for Sherlock's heart.  _After all, we all know how_ _ **that**_ _relationship worked out._ At the realisation his grin widens: He knows it's a Bit Not Good that she's upset, but he is having to physically restrain himself from doing his happy dance right now-

 _Turns out that, despite being courted by a god, all Ms. Hooper really wants is a nibble on the old Sherlock biscuit_ , he thinks smugly.

John shoots him a look, mouthing,  _knock it off, wanker,_ and Sherlock wisely elects to continue the Biscuity Victory Dance inside the privacy of his own mind.

_There's less danger of his looking like a pillock that way._

Loki must have read at least some of her anxiety on Molly's face though, because he stops his rant then, changes tack. Kneels down in front of her and takes one if her hands in his, murmurs something quiet and soppy and nauseatingly sincere to her knuckles that Sherlock doesn't understand. ( _He doesn't speak Tosser, after all_.) Molly shakes her head though, gestures to indicate Sig the Dragon and her disappearing act. As she speaks, she gesticulates animatedly and Loki becomes more and more agitated, power starting to glint and spark around his hands, his arms. His fingers.

It looks… It looks more than a little incendiary.

As Sherlock watches uneasily the Asgardian's skin begins to pale, slowly turning blue. Thin, narrow lines of what look like runes running along his cheekbones, the sides of his throat. They raise themselves, like scars, on his hands. It's rather fascinating to watch-  _some sort of reaction to his emotions? A method of powering up?-_ but even Sherlock's scientific curiosity can't hide the fact that it looks a bit, well,  _lethal_ -

And he is proved right, for as Loki speaks the sparks of power running along his arms begin to coalesce. To move together. Where they were blue and white, scarlet begins bleeding into them, their hue turning darker. Murkier. They begin to merge, buzzing together like bees, and the sound stirs something in Sherlock. It is, he suspects, the same something which the first caveman felt when he realised he had not blocked the opening to his home.  _Here be dragons,_ the sound seems to say.

_And in this case, that's not just a metaphor._

Molly shakes her head- "No, Loki," she says sharply, "not this time,"- and as she does the sparks suddenly hiss together, their light turning demonic. Brilliant. They look like nothing so much now as the ball of light from which Thor and Sig the Dragon appeared in the Mycroft Cave and look how well  _that_ turned out. Apparently Molly thinks the same because her gaze goes to Sherlock, her mouth opening to yell a warning. Loki grins that shark-sharp smile of his mutters a sharp, curt word in his native Tosser. The ball of light widens, darts towards Sherlock though the detective stumbles backwards in his haste to escape it. John and Mary both move to defend him, John looking around for a weapon, Mary murmuring something quick and singsong under her breath which Sherlock can't make out-

But though both his friends try to help, Sherlock feels his feels lifted off the ground, a sensation like a great fist squeezing his insides-

Molly reaches out, grabs the hem of his coat, and as she does so he hears Loki give a furious snarl of "No!"

It makes no difference though. The red ball of light widens suddenly, as suddenly as it did before Sig made her appearance. There is a hiss of burning heat, the buzz of electricity in the air and then suddenly-  _Suddenly-_

Suddenly Sherlock is dragged backwards  _into_ the ball of light, his (entirely manly, completely understandable) yelp of surprise swallowed a howling wind. By a sudden, biting cold. For a moment he hangs, suspended in midair, and then, as he had known it would have to do, gravity folds him into her embrace once more. The ground reaching up to meet him and head-butting him by way of greeting.

It is _\- unsurprisingly-_ very sore, but then gravity saying hello always is.

With a great deal more unwillingness Sherlock flops over on his back, blinks up at a jade green sky in which three moons and two suns hang suspended. The air tastes foul, unnatural, and coming from a man who lives in central London that's bloody saying something. He closes his eyes, tries to catalogue any possible injuries as quickly as he can before he gets down to having a panic attack about the fact that he appears to be on another bloody planet-

And that is when he is (literally) smacked in the face with a handful of British womanhood. A very lovely handful, but a handful nonetheless.

For the indomitable, the inimitable, the surprisingly bloody corporeal Molly Hooper lands, quite literally, on his face and Sherlock can't be entirely sure, but he doesn't think this is a good thing.

Although he does have to allow that, if he's exiled her to anther planet for liking someone else better, he probably needn't worry about her and Loki anymore.

* * *

**_Meanwhile, back at Tower Hill Tube Station..._ **

Mary Watson has Loki by the ear.

She's hissing very angry-sounding things at him in a language John doesn't understand. The gist of which is clearly  _Get Me Back My Sherlock or Face The Consequences, Mullet-Boy,_ a sentiment which would translate easily no matter what tongue were Git is answering her back, just as quickly, his voice slightly panicked, his expression repentant. Whatever he says must pass muster with Mary though because she releases his ear. Nods to Mycroft. Her look is…. Worryingly intent.

"You need to get back to the Mycroft Cave and get out your books of magic, it's the only way to repair this," she tells him tartly. She nods to Loki. "The Pornomancer here is going to come to Windsor Castle with me and try to fix things with that poor dragon while you go and clean up this mess-"

Mycroft looks slightly affronted (no easy feat when being carried by a burly Asgardian) and attempts to look down his nose at Mary.

The attempt is, needless to say, less than successful.

"And why should I do that?" he asks snidely. "Loki opened that portal, only Loki can close it-"

Mary rolls her eyes heavenward, as if asking for patience. "You opened it first," she speaks over him, "and if it's what I think it is then you'll need to close it to. That's the only explanation for it following us all out here. So look in the books you used, see what you can find on the  _Siege Perilous._ Do you think you can remember that?"

She shoots him a glance of deepest cynicism, one which John can tell is designed to push every button Mycroft has-

_And lo and behold, it works._

Because once again Mycroft shoots her his most offended, withering glare. Once again Mary is splendidly unaffected by the endeavour. "Siege perilous," he allows when it becomes obvious his haughtiness will have no effect whatsoever. "It's not so difficult, I have read Arthurian myth, you know." John, Mary and Loki all roll their eyes in mutual disgust and Mycroft shoots them a thin-lipped smile. "Although," he continues, and now his voice is suspiciously innocent, "I don't actually read Ancient Asgardian terribly well: It would go more quickly is I had a translator…"

And he looks up at Thor.

John bloody swears he's batting his eyelashes.

It reminds him uncomfortably of when Sherlock used to try and sweet-talk Molly into giving him body parts, and he suspects it will have a similar outcome, because-

The alien Prince looks down at Mycroft and suddenly… Suddenly a tiny spot of red stains his cheeks. Suddenly he looks almost… bashful. Shy. Which, given the amount of armour he's wearing, is both heart-warming and slightly disturbing.

 _Actually, make that_ _**quite** _ _disturbing._

To his left Loki gives a snort of disgust and Mary delivers a short, sharp clip to the back of his head. She shoots him a glare that could incinerate glass and he shuts up promptly.

"Well, I could help you with that, mortal," Thor says hesitantly. "I have no magical abilities to speak of, but I can easily read the texts. Mother made both Loki and I learn…" And he trails off, looks down at Mycroft. Smiles at him.

Once again Loki gives a derisive snort.

If the elder Holmes heard him however then he gives no indication of it. Instead he nods and gestures back to Tower Hill.

"To my office then?" he says. He looks… He looks quite happy with himself indeed.

Mary looks like she doesn't blame him, which does wonders for John's sense of Zen.

Thor nods solemnly. "Worry not. I shall help your translations… And should you require it, I shall defend you from the dragon." He grins at Mycroft. "I shall enjoy the chance to showcase my skills, little one."

John can't be entirely sure, but he somehow thinks that this may be going precisely how Mycroft wants it to-

And one look at his Mrs. tells him that she believes the same.

* * *

**_And in another place entirely…_ **

Molly is starting to panic.

Sherlock can tell because he really would like to panic too, but he thinks he should try to hold it together for her sake. After all, a Sherlock Biscuit never crumbles under pressure, now does it? Dunk it in the tea of life and it soldiers on regardless.

 _And_ _ **one**_ _of them should do the whole stiff upper lip routine, even if it's a bit of a fake right now_.

So he takes a deep breath, forcing it in through his nose and out through his mouth. Molly has managed to scramble from his grasp and is pacing, desperately, muttering under her breath about red Star Trek jerseys and Bond villain minions-

"Doomed," she's saying, "Oh God, I'm doomed! We're doomed!"

Sherlock sits up, grateful that he hasn't hurt himself further in his little altercation with gravity. Not so grateful that she's panicking which means he has to be the grownup.

"Do pull yourself together, Molly," he snaps in irritation. "I'm sure that Mary Watson and the Avengers are merrily beating the reversal procedure out of Loki even as we speak-"

But this does not calm the lovely Ms. Hooper. Instead Molly turns and looks at him. Kneels down before him. It is only now that he realises that she is no longer wearing the jeans and jumper outfit she'd put on this morning. Oh no, now she's wearing kitten heels. Delicate, silver jewellery. This beautiful, diaphanous, barely-there gown that sweeps to her toes and somehow manages to be both backless and sleeveless, somehow manages to be there and yet so transparent that he's amazed it stays on at all.

 _Maybe it's the very happy thoughts he's thinking right now that's keeping it on her,_ he muses _._

Molly follows his line of sight, realises that he's noticed. He half expects her to slap his face for staring but instead she gestures desperately to the dress.

"You see?" she demands. "You see? You see what's happened?"

"I see that I never should have implied your breasts were too small," he says distractedly-  _he's been recently concussed, after all_ \- and is rewarded for this attempt at a compliment with a sharp slap to the back of the head.

"Focus, Sherlock," she hisses. "I'm glad you finally noticed the girls here-" she gestures to her chest- "but, but that's not what's got me so upset."

And she takes a deep breath, blinks those great big brown eyes at him. Suddenly, just as she had back in the Mycroft Cave, she manages to make Sherlock's heart twist most peculiarly, hot, black mess that it is.

"What's wrong with the dress, Molly?" he asks quietly. "Why- Why does it upset you so?" And he leans in towards her, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Miraculously, his irritation is forgotten.

_Just for a moment he doesn't care for anything else._

Molly looks down, her words mumbled. Shy. "It's- it's the Diaphanous Dress of Doom, Sherlock," she stammers. "Don't you know..? But of course you don't. I doubt you or Mycroft ever watched any normal movies as children. Every film, every TV show… Once the girl in the story gets put into a dress like this, she always ends up being eaten by a monster…" She shudders. "Or getting cleaned up and sent to the villain's chambers-"

Sherlock straightens up.  _He doesn't care where they are, he's not bloody having_ _ **that**_ _._ "No villain is going to be taking you to his quarters, Molly," he says sternly. "I know we may be on a-" He casts around for a definition of their current location, but all he can come up with is Not-Earth, which hardly narrows things down any- "Another place, but I won't let anything happen to you-"

As he says those words however, Sherlock hears a terrible commotion in the bushes to his right.

He forces himself to his feet, Molly pulled behind him, determined to protect her from any foe.

What he sees though ... What he sees is a nightmare from his childhood, a thing he didn't think could possibly exist, no matter what Mycroft may have told him…

For standing before him, their eyes glowing red, their teeth spattered with blood, their rainbow-hued manes dripping with gore, stands a pack of…  _A pack of_ _ **feral unicorns**_. They look just as Mycroft used to describe them to his baby brother before bedtime, like the offspring of one of that beastly Gwendolyn Sparks' from Fourth Class's My Little Pony collection and a rhinoceros. An  _irritable_  rhinoceros.

And all of them appear to be angry. At him.

The lead unicorn looks at him, draws its teeth back. The eyes remind Sherlock a little of Jim Moriarty, and he knows that can bode no good. The creature darts forward, intent on Molly, intent on hurting Sherlock's Pathologist. She can't run, not in those shoes, and as she scrambles back she falls on her backside-

"Now do you believe me?" Molly mutters as she tries to scuttle backwards. "The Diaphanous Dress of Doom never lies!"

Sherlock however, isn't quite ready to believe that yet-

So he does the only thing he can do: he hoists her over his shoulder and takes off for the forest, the herd of feral unicorns in hot pursuit.

* * *

A/N There now, what could be going on, dun dun duuunnn! As always hope you enjoyed. And thanks for their reviews go to annathecrow and Springbok7, as well as all those who left kudos. Until next time, hobbits away, hey!


	9. Detectives Are Sensitive People (With So Much To Give)

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta-read by the awesome Katya Jade, who is also responsible for my new favourite word: PockeMolly. Thanks too (as always) for their reviews go to buffchester, Neha and springbok7. Here you go, ladies: Enjoy!

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_~ Detectives Are Sensitive People (With So Much To Give) ~_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, consummate scientific thinker that he is, takes the opportunity to cogitate as he thunders through the alien savannah in which he's found himself, a pack of feral unicorns at his heels.

He cogitates on the fact that though elfin, Molly Hooper is surprisingly heavy when slung over one's shoulders, especially when her head keeps smacking into one's arse. (Not that the sensation is particularly horrible, but still).

He cogitates on the fact that manoeuvring said shoulderful of womanly pulchritude is actually more difficult than driving a formula one car, a stolen Tube train or a WW2 tank (and he happens to have experience with all three).

But mostly he cogitates on the fact that the unicorns are getting closer, their vicious snuffling becoming disconcertingly louder the nearer they get to their prey, and Sherlock isn't certain but he doesn't think he can keep this up much longer. In fact, he's not even certain he'll make it to the patch of trees he's heading for, (figuring that if he and Molly can reach and scramble up said greenery then the evolutionary disadvantages of hooves will make themselves apparent and Team Sherlock will be saved.)

 _Which would,_ he knows,  _simply be best for the universe._

But that's becoming increasingly unlikely: Though it must be an illusion, it feels like the trees are purposefully moving further away the more effort he puts into reaching them. In fact, this almost feels like one of those dreams where one runs and runs and runs, and never reaches one's destination. A dream starring the sort of childhood bogeyman that he's never told anyone about, even Mummy or John. Which leads to some interesting theories about what sort of place he has found himself consigned to, or alternatively how long Mycroft has been studying magic and how much he might have told his younger brother about the creatures it put him into contact with. Before he can examine any hypothesis further however the lead unicorn, the one which reminds him of Moriarty, gives a bounding leap forward, its razor-sharp teeth making a try for the exposed back of Molly's neck-

Sherlock hisses, swears, and manages to bound forward, dodging her out of the way. He dearly wishes Molly hadn't dug her nails into his arse in any attempt not to fall off his shoulders but oh well.  _It's not like he minds_ _ **that much**_. It's a near thing though, the Moriartacorn missing, the impact of his dodge jarring Sherlock's knees and nearly toppling him over onto his belly-

He has to scramble to regain his footing, nearly dropping Molly in the process.

The Moriartacorn gives a vicious snarl and darts forward again, forcing Sherlock to speed up and bound even further ahead, trying to keep both himself and his precious cargo away from the monster.

"Sherlock," he hears Molly pant, "Sherlock, put me down. I'll try to run- I'm sure I can take the shoes off-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Do you think I haven't thought of that?" he snaps, pulling at her shoes as if to illustrate his point.  _Neither budges._ "If those shoes came off I'd have thrown them at the things chasing us by now-"

"Oh," Molly says, momentarily nonplussed. Her head smacks into his left arse-cheek this time, so hard it could either cause a bruise or give her whiplash, Sherlock's not certain which. It feels almost as good as her nails and he is not examining that thought with a ten foot barge pole. He isn't.

 _Ahem_.

"But even so, you should still put me down," she continues after a second. "I'm slowing you down; If you're not carrying me you can-"

"Molly!" Sherlock stops her with a sharp, pointed slap to her backside. She lets out the most interesting little yelp at it, almost as interesting as the feeling of her nails digging into his skin, as the Moriartacorn makes another snapping attempt at his heels. "I wouldn't leave John or Mary in this situation," he says, "and I won't leave you-"

"I qualify the same as John and Mary?" she says slightly breathlessly, this sentence delivered to his right arse-cheek. He finds himself hoping, somewhat forlornly, that it's the good arse-cheek (he once had to catalogue the differences between the two for a case, so this is an informed worry).

"You do," he tells her with certainty. "Now be a dear and shut up while I execute our little spot of derring do, alright?"

And he leaps forward, managing to clear a narrow stream in two soaking, splashing steps. He knows that it looks rather dashing and he allows himself a small, smug smile. He hears Molly sputter, realises she must have inadvertently gotten wet.  _Oops,_ he thinks. As if from nowhere the image splashes across his brain, her in that Diaphanous Dress of Doom but soaked. Soaked, the gown clinging to her skin whilst she wears a deerstalker. And go-go boots. Suddenly, in his head, she's hula-dancing.

 _What a lovely mental image,_ he thinks.  _Not that such thoughts will help though._

And he's right: The Moriartacorn clears the stream in one leap, not even slowing up. Though its pack are not nearly so agile, they're not far behind. Sherlock hears several hooves thundering as they land on the grass behind him and though he wants to speed up, he's afraid even his long legs cannot outpace them- For the first time in a long time, he's not even sure he can keep up his current speed-

And then the single oddest thing in this singularly odd day happens.

Which, given that he's been threatened by the Hulk, been bitch-slapped by a dragon, been sucked through a magical portal and (hopefully) seduced away the Norse God of Mischief's girlfriend, is saying something indeed.

For, to his right, he hears a sudden, ululating cry come up. It sounds like hundreds of tiny, girlish voices and they're yelling, roaring. Singing what sounds like a war-song, a tinny, pounding rhythm taking up beside him as if many, many, many, tiny feet are stomping in protest and making their way towards both he and the unicorn herd with astonishing, lethal speed. Sherlock risks a glance sideways and as he does he sees-

Why, he sees an  _army_ of tiny Mollies, dressed exactly as he as always imagined the Molly he could carry around in his pocket would be dressed.

They're all wearing tiny white lab-coats and tiny, miniscule deerstalkers, and they're all darting towards him in tiny, gorgeous, hula-capable little go-go boots.

_They look absolutely bloody divine._

They're all armed to the teeth too, carrying tiny cutlasses, knives, whips, swords, and, in at least one case, what looks like a Klingon bat'leth-

"K'plagh!" he hears a tinny voice bellow- "You will die a peasant's death!"-

"Sherlock..?" Molly says, her voice slightly panicked. "Sherlock, can you see what I can see?"

"Yup," Sherlock huffs, making sure to pop his Ps. Grinning as a workable hypothesis of where he is and what this place is capable of coming together inside his head. Of course, he should have known that Mycroft made up those stories of the feral unicorns. He never would have been able to control himself when Sherlock was a child if he had actual access to one. Attempting to sell Sherlock to  _Menudo_  when he was six would have been entirely unnecessary if Brother Dearest had a feral unicorn of his very own.

_Which means…_

Buoyed on by this thought, Sherlock decides to test his hypothesis. He looks right at the army of PockeMollies and concentrates for a moment, even as he dodges a boulder to his left and what looks like a cross between a badger and a gecko to his right. He pictures what he wants in his mind- even as he keeps running- and then turns to look at his handiwork. For a moment, he thinks he has been successful: the army of PockeMollies is momentarily augmented by a battalion of similarly tiny, smirking Irene Adlers. Each one perfect in every regard, each one as naked as The Woman always is inside his mind though carrying a riding crop-

 _It looks, he has to admit, quite impressively debauched_.

For a moment everyone stills, even the feral unicorns who are wearing matching, discombobulated expressions.  _And once you've discombobulated a herd of feral unicorns, what other challenges remain in life?_ he muses _._ But then the new recruits simply throw Sherlock an unimpressed, vaguely accusing look and morph back into PockeMollies. They even cheer and point at the real Molly, gesturing wildly like a war-party which has finally found its purpose, its leader. It's messiah. Sherlock knows he should be disappointed in his plan's failure, but somehow he's not, and he doesn't think Molly is either. Instead, she gestures for him to put her down and he does so, skidding to a halt.

She clambers out of his arms with surprising grace, throws him a look and he realises that she must have followed his line of logic, because now- NOW she's dressed in a skin-tight black leather cat-suit. It looks rather like the one Agent Romanova was wearing in London and it's-  _Oh my, it suits her even better than the Diaphanous Dress of Doom, despite that fact that she's not wet anymore_.

Sherlock  _likes._

She's holding an absolutely massive gun in her hands, and she has it pointed at the Moriartacorn, a blood-curdling grin on her face.

Sherlock finds he likes  _that_  even more.

"This is my boom-stick, Jimmy _,_ " she says darkly. The Moriartacorn appears to be trying his hand at an unimpressed look but Molly isn't buying it. "And this is payback, you psychotic, sick, cruel, lying git," she snaps, "So step away from the Sherlock and assume the position, short-arse-"

And with that she cocks the gun and fires. Bullets don't come out, but some sort of energy pulse which spatters the Moriartacorn apart in a storm of blood and guts and rainbow-tufted hair.

 _It's glorious_.

The other feral unicorns stop, blink, uncomfortable now that their pack leader is dead. "Go get them, girls," Molly intones grimly with a dismissive wave of her hand and suddenly- Suddenly the army of PokeMollies are all over the unicorns, tearing them apart through sheer force of numbers. The tiny female figures butchering their enemy, ripping them to pieces and dancing in the blood of their prey, splashing themselves with the gore. It's… Well, Sherlock thinks it looks both amazingly cute and very disturbing. Like  _Hello Kitty_ meets  _Lord of the Flies_ \- Which is just Molly in a nut-shell _,_ he muses _._

_And speaking of…_

He meets her eye then and they turn away from the carnage, reassured that the PockeMollies will be able to handle things from here. They've starting singing some sort of war chant, the general gist of which seems to be  _We Are Molly, Hear Us Roar-_ it's sung to the tune of  _Blaze of Glory_ by Bon Jovi- and that tells Sherlock everything he needs to know about their capacity for survival. As he walks away a group of them start whooping and hollering, encouraging Molly with calls and clapping and quite obscene hand gestures, all of which appear to mean, "get in there, my girl!"

Sherlock's face goes bright red at this and he is only saved from total mortification by the fact that Molly's matches.

"So, essentially, whatever we can imagine in this place, we can make real?" Molly asks then, sotto voce.

She seems fascinated by her shoes- or in this case, her high-heeled boots, and she is unwilling to meet Sherlock's eye.

Holmes nods. "Um, yeah," he answers, licking his lips. Shy suddenly, now that the adrenaline rush is over and a small army of his libido's psycho-pomps are apparently merrily disembowelling the creatures which were trying to hurt him.

The fact that so many of them are now cheering him on also isn't helping matters.

"I never told anyone about what Mycroft used to scare me with when we were children," he points out, thinking that rather than focussing on his embarrassment, an explanation might be in order. "It seemed a logical leap: Something I had imagined but which did not exist had appeared to hurt me. Therefore something I had imagined but which did not exist could be brought into being to save my life-"

Again Molly addresses her toes. "And when you think "life-saver," you automatically think me?" She frowns, her nose scrunching slightly. "Or, well, you know, tiny, homicidal versions of me-"

The PokeMollies let out boos of protest at this.

She shoots them a quelling look but it does no good at all.

"They're never homicidal in my head," Sherlock points out, desperately ignoring the PokeMollies' protests. "In my head they're little and happy and just lovely, really-"

"-And they wear almost nothing but go-go boots and dance whenever you want." A small smile dimples in Molly's cheek. "Would that about cover it?"

Now she looks up at him almost shyly, merriment in her eyes.

Sherlock scowls, uncomfortable at the teasing- mainly because the PokeMollies have decided to join in with the mocking.

They bouncing on their heels, singing, "Go Molly! Go Molly! He's Wearing The Purple Shirt of Sexy!" and it's really quite distracting.

"Yes, well, the dancing wasn't the main point of it, you know," he says testily. "The original point was to be able to take you with me into places I would never countenance your going in real life-"

Molly crosses her arms. "Like where? Baker Street? Scotland Yard? The Avengers Tower?" For some reason, she's no longer smiling. Neither are her plethora of mini-mes.

This confuses Sherlock.

"Yes," he says tartly. His scowl gets darker. "I could never put the real you in such danger-"

"But I can handle myself." Again Molly frowns. She gestures to the cat-suit and the PokeMollies let out cheers of encouragement. Sherlock suspects that power is starting to go to their heads. "I mean, whatever did you  _think_ I was doing in New York, if it wasn't learning how to kick some arse?"

"I thought you were being protected," he says bluntly. "I thought that, even if that miscreant Stark or that idiot Rogers were trying to inveigle their way into your knickers, you would at least be safe from Moriarty. And that you'd have a nice holiday before you came back to  _me_. If I'd known for one moment you were going to endanger yourself I'd never have allowed you to go-"

"Allowed?" Molly says disbelievingly. " _Allowed_? You think you allowed me to do anything, Sherlock Holmes?"

"No," he snaps back, "I don't think, I know." He crosses his arms over his chest, smirks condescendingly at her. "And once we get out of this, you and I will come to some arrangement about the sort of risks it is appropriate for you to court-"

"The Hell we will!" Molly snarls, squaring up to him. Suddenly she looks… Well, she looks rather fetchingly incendiary. And she has a group of killer mini-clones.

Sherlock resolutely does not gulp. He does not.

"What I didn't let Loki dictate," she's hissing, "I'm not letting you control-"

Mention of the trickster makes him see red. "I'm not asking you for control," he snaps, "I'm asking you to keep yourself safe-"

"Oh why?" Molly retorts. "Because finagling some other poor sap into being your preferred body-snatcher would just be too much bloody trouble?"

"No," Sherlock hisses. "Because I just spent the last six months practically certain that something would happen to you and keeping the Avengers Tower under surveillance- Stark complained to MI:6, I'll have you know- and if I did all that and I got attacked by a dragon and I stood up to a god and I actually decided that I wanted you enough to tell you I fantasised about having a tiny, wee version of you with me at all times then you are not allowed get yourself harmed in some ridiculous, idiotic attempt at heroics! Because you don't need to be heroic in a way that requires a cat-suit, you just have to be heroic in the way you always have been, so there-"

And then suddenly, suddenly all thought ceases because Molly Hooper has reached out and grabbed him by his lapels and kissed him so hard that he practically passes out, let alone sees stars.

 _After all, he hadn't much breath left to begin with, after that tirade_.

It is, without a doubt, the highlight of Sherlock's day so far. Possibly, his life. Made slightly less idyllic by the fact that now all the PokeMollies are cheering and dancing in joy, covered in feral unicorn blood as they are and waving their weapons around.

It looks like a very tiny re-enactment of  _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre._

 _But, you know..._ _**romantic** _ _too._

Be that as it may, however, Sherlock is far too happy to be kissing Molly to really give a toss. So he turns his back on his tiny creations and wraps his arms around Molly. Pulls her close and grins at her, dips his head to try that kissing business again. She tightens their embrace and kisses him back with a fervour he has hitherto had no experience with. A fervour he's fairly certain is illegal is several countries.

It. Is. Bloody. Marvellous.

They both come up for air and grin hesitantly at one another; Molly gestures over his shoulder to see the PokeMollies yelling in celebration at this turn of events. Molly shoots him a mischievous look, closes her eyes as she had when she conjured the gun she used on the Moriartacorn and suddenly for every PokeMolly there's a little mini Sherlock, wearing what looks like his purple shirt and his tightest trousers. There's also a couple of Irene Adlers, and some of the PokeMollies are ignoring their Sherlocks entirely and grinning at the dark-haired woman instead, something Holmes finds disconcerting, to say the least. The crowd of tiny figures cheers again, even the mini-Sherlocks joining in with the general kafuffle-

For a split second Sherlock thinks that everything is going swimmingly and that, of course, is when the two new, machete-wielding figures scramble through the undergrowth and surprise them.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. Until next time. And for extra brownie points, can any one tell me where the name of this chapter comes from? Think about it, you already know... :-) Hobbits away, hey!


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